August 9, 2013

• Baby Boomer Club….the pain of it all

    

  

   

      I am a Baby Boomer. I didn’t enlist to become one, nor was I sentenced to live my life as one. I was simply conceived by a randy sailor home from the Pacific following WW II and my mother was a waitress and a willing recipient of his randiness. As nature dictates, I arrived on the scene eight months and eleven days later with limited options. The year was 1947, President Harry Truman was in office and King George VI was the British monarch. On the music charts was Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba sung by Perry Como and Mam’selle sung by Frank Sinatra. Aliens had landed and were running amok in Roswell, New Mexico, much as they are today. The number one movies were Miracle on 34th Street and Life with father. Both were plagued with politically incorrect normality.

       My ignorant kids once told me that life doesn’t really begin until your 50. It’s a shame my body didn’t attend that series of lectures, as it’s currently in remission and my fat index exceeds my body’s warranty. I don’t think or feel very old. Fact is, I don’t really feel much of my body anymore until around midday and then it hits me like a sumo on meth and then I just take a nap. My doctor tells me that at my age, diet is everything, followed closely by exercise. He tells me to never eat anything that taste good or is served through a window. The dog’s Gravy Train and Milk Bones are starting to look good and I fear our relationship may soon suffer due to my diet. My exercise routine consist of walking to the mailbox, (and back), and sometimes over into my foreign neighbor’s backyard where I pick a few oranges from one of his trees. I know he sees me, but he’s afraid to say anything for fear I’m wading around in a dementia minefield looking for the Viet Cong. I stash my oranges in my garage like a three hundred pound chipmunk hording acorns. Wifey rations my fruit intake because of the sugar, but I know she’s eating buckets of fruit cocktail when I’m conveniently taking my nap. She can be cruel.

       Then there’s that portion of my brain that controls my memory. It’s about the size of a walnut now. Some days I don’t have any memory problems at all. Other days, I can’t find the “Lone Ranger” or “The Jack Benny Show” on the radio. Wifey just smiles, takes my hand, and gently asks me where the safety deposit box key is….again. Well, this is just a small insight into the Baby Boomer club house and I would like to write more, but I really need to take a potty break……uh oh!….never mind.

                                                                                                                                                                                            Charlie
  

   

  

  • 10:27 pm
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