Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty-four?

                                                ~ The Beatles

I remember when I thought that the idea of being sixty-four was outrageous. It was soooo old …

Well, this week, I turned seventy-four and I’m beginning to see what old really means and feels like. I can visualize being a kid at my grandmother’s house with all the old people and relatives — uncles, aunts, and cousins — and being relegated to the kids’ tables, or most likely, outside. My parents were swept up in the chaos of too many people, leaving my brother and me at the mercy of the cousins.

We were the ‘big city’ kids and they were the ‘country boys’ who felt a compelling need to demonstrate their superiority over us too-refined, studious types. Of course, while my brother and I were both on football teams and bigger than our cousins, they were (supposedly) tougher and wilder. They surreptitiously chewed tobacco, showed us their creative spitting techniques, and knew about all things “cowboy.”

Meanwhile, the adults sat in the other room and gossiped, smoked, drank, and complained about their aches and explained their various infirmities. At the time, they were probably in their forties, but to me they were in that ageless layer of “adults with jobs,” unlike that layer of “adults retired.” The former group were still functional and could be relied on to remember birthdays and take us places. The latter group were less tolerant of us kids, but could be relied on for uncomfortable hugs and too-tight squeezes. If I walked past my grandfather, he would reach out and pinch my “love handles” to the point of pain. Great fun!

Finding myself in the category of “adults retired” is a bit of a shock. Sure, it’s been coming a long time and my aches and pains didn’t just start recently, but I am conscious of them getting more persistent, and possibly, unending. Digital dexterity has never been a strength of mine, but even with glasses, my poor eyesight for a tiny dial or button adds to the challenge of a cell phone, TV controller, and various computerized devices. I will say that a cell phone is a relief for me (and Merrilyn), since I can check it to remind myself what day it is, rather than having to repeatedly ask her.

To my recent annual physical, I brought a list of all my specific aches and pains, and a longer list of medications, noting which doctor ordered them, what for, and when. I’m now on my fourth GP. The older Marcus Welby-type guy retired back when I was in my forties, and I had his successor until a few years ago when she retired. There were then two others in quick succession, but now I should be good for a few years, since the current doctor is pretty young (by my standards.)

Of course, one benefit of having everything written out is that I don’t have to remember all the details of my meds: what to take, when and why, and who wanted me to take them anyway. The list of aches and pains is malleable, and I don’t take it too seriously until just before an appointment.

I remember the old guys on TV and movies when I was a kid complaining about their ‘sacroiliac’ or just generally gimping around. The old folks I knew seemed to have difficulty getting up, or sometimes down, and, as my brother described it, “sounded like the Baja Marimba band” when they did so.

Well, now I can relate.

There is a song that tells us to ‘make your own kind of music,’ and I can certainly do so, often without even getting up. (I mean creaking, but other musical bodily noises may inadvertently occur, too.)

I’m physically slower, but mentally … working on it. I’ve been accused of drifting off, but prefer to see it as contemplating things too complex for casual consideration. In short, I’m getting old, even though I still see myself in my once-robust youth.

Meanwhile, I will just keep on keeping on. After all, this getting old stuff isn’t for sissies.