By Mordechai Schmutter

So far, this is the oldest I’ve ever been.

Last week, I wrote an article about how I’m getting older. Not that I’m old.

On the other hand, nobody thinks of themselves as old, as much as nobody thinks of themselves as young. Even a two-year-old, if you ask him, will assure you that he’s a big boy. I tell my students all the time that they don’t know anything because they’re young, and they say, “Nuh-uh, we’re regular. You’re old.”

Then, because I’m their English teacher, I have to teach them that there’s no such thing as “regular.”

But last week, I started making peace with aging by listing some of the things that I do now that I didn’t do in my twenties, such as go to the doctor. This week, we’re going to talk about some points that I wanted to talk about last week, but I forgot.

For example, my memory is going, apparently. Little by little. I don’t remember when it started going, obviously. But for example, sometimes I’ll be telling a story, which takes longer and longer these days, because, as I age, my stories get longer to tell because they take longer to happen. And that’s a lot of details to remember when you’re telling it over. Unless I keep reviewing the story and telling it over and over, even though the people I’m telling it to insist that I’ve already told it to them. I’m not telling it for them, I’m telling it for me. So I keep going, repeating the same story that I forgot I told them, like I’m writing an article and trying to fill some kind of word count.

Another thing that struck me recently is that I finally understand the halachah against sitting in one’s father’s chair. When I was a kid and I heard about it, I thought, “That seems like a pretty minor thing. Really? That was the first example of kibbud av the rebbe could think of?”

But now I’m like, “Yeah, that’s the first thing I think of when I walk into the house, too. I have my whole setup near the chair. I can reach everything I need. Should I take all those things and find somewhere else to sit because you want to sit at my desk and play computer games? I don’t even want to have to tell you to get up. I’ve been thinking about sitting here the whole way home. How about from now on you stand up when I come into the room, just in case?”

Another thing about age is that my memory is going, apparently. Sometimes I’ll be telling someone a story, and he’ll tell me that I already told him that story, but I’ll keep going, repeating the same story that I forgot that I told them, like I’m writing an article and trying to fill some kind of word count.

And my memory is slipping in other ways, too. Sometimes I’ll call Hungry “Starving” and Bored “Serious.” It’s hard to keep track when they keep changing their names every day.

But on the other hand, it might not be an age thing. My students forget pens and paper when they come to class, and they’re “regular.”

Yet they bother me about my memory all the time. A student will ask, “What did I get on that test the other day?” And I’ll say, “I don’t remember offhand. You think I can memorize 45 grades?” And he’ll ask, “Why not? You’re too old?”

This from someone who forgot there was going to be a test.

Another thing that seems to have happened at some point is that I’m starting to be OK with people calling me “Mister.” Nobody ever starts off comfortable being called “Mister.” They’re like, “No, my father is Mister.”

“Um, I don’t know your father. To me, you’re Mister.”

It’s not like a real name that you can’t use as long as your father is alive, because of kibbud av. Is it?

(Women have it weirder. “No, my mother-in-law is Mrs. So-and-so.”)

But then you go through a bunch of years when new people you meet are uncomfortable about what to call you–“Rabbi? Doctor?” and you say, “Please call me Mister.”

Or enough people keep calling you Mister and you keep correcting them, and then after a while, you’re like, “I guess that’s my name.” Every time you’re in the waiting room at the doctor, they call out, “Mr. Schmutter?” And you call back, “My father is Mister!”

“Yeah, I don’t care. Get in the office.”

Every month this happens.

And eventually, the length of time that people have been calling you Mister beats out the length of time that people called you Schmutter (or whatever). You eventually realize, “This is a losing battle. More and more people keep calling me Mister. Maybe they’re right.” It’s not worth getting aggravated. You have high blood pressure as it is.

Because that’s another thing. Apparently when you age, your blood pressure gets higher. My doctor–the one who’s obsessed with trying to get me to come back once a month–keeps trying to get me to take blood-pressure medication, despite my protests that I have it under control. I’m finding that this fight is not good for my blood pressure.

This is part of why the doctor keeps asking me to come back. The first time he saw me, he asked for my family medical history, and I said that there might be some high blood pressure, and ever since then, in between giving me shots and weighing me, he’s basically been freaking out about my blood pressure. Every time I come in, my blood pressure gets taken at least twice. First the nurse takes it, and then, five minutes later, the doctor takes it. And they always get vastly different numbers. Not that I know what the numbers mean. It’s always some random number, like “Eleventy million over ninety-two.” It’s always a fraction. And the numerator is bigger. I’m like, “Can’t you just round it to a whole number? I don’t know what this means.” And they’re like, “It’s a little high.” They say that every time. Do they actually mean it’s a little high, or do they mean it’s legitimately high, but they want to be polite, so they’re saying it’s a little high, like you would tell your host you’re “a little hungry” when you actually mean, “I assumed there was going to be food”?

The thing is, I’m not crazy about the idea of blood-pressure pills, because I know people who take them, but I don’t know anyone who’s ever stopped.

So I asked, “Why do I have to take pills if it’s just a little high?”

So he said, “Well, high blood pressure runs in your family.”

So I asked, “How many people in my family have to have it for you to say that it runs in my family? Because I only know of one, unless you count my shver. Why don’t we wait for it to run high with me and then we’ll worry about it?”

So he said, “It only gets worse as you get older.”

And I’m like, “You’re going to see me in a month; you can check again then. Twice.”

This happened a few times, with him putting more and more pressure on me each time. Finally I was honest with him. I said, “Do you know what I think? I think it’s high because you’re making me nervous about it being too high.” Every time he takes my blood pressure, I’m hurrying to relax and picture myself lying on a beach, next to a palm tree that’s always on my right for some reason, when I can clearly feel that I’m actually sitting on a sheet of butcher paper with my legs dangling off the ground with a nurse getting a shot ready in the background.

So he said, “OK, smart guy, buy a blood-pressure cuff and take it at home every day. Write down the results and let me know.”

So I bought an electric cuff that he recommended that makes a loud noise that basically raises your blood pressure and takes away any illusions that you’re on a beach. And my numbers were higher than his.

So I said, “Fine, put me on medication.” So he wrote a prescription that he assured me did not have to be a rest-of-my-life thing if my blood pressure suddenly went down quicker than my aging was making it go up. Then he told me to come back in a month.

In the meantime, I’ve been taking the pills every day that I remember. I generally forget on Shabbosim. I’m busy remembering the Shabbos, to keep it holy. It doesn’t help that I keep the pills on my work desk.

I’m sorry if all of this feels like I’m complaining, but recent studies show that complaining helps you live longer. Or maybe it feels like longer to the people measuring it.

Point is, this is why Jews are always complaining. And also why older people seem to complain a lot. It’s not that old people complain a lot, it’s that people who complain a lot live to be older. Your kids, for example, who were born crying, are definitely going to outlive you. And your mother-in-law is going to live forever.

Your father-in-law, meanwhile, has high blood pressure.

Mordechai Schmutter is a weekly humor columnist for Hamodia and is the author of five books, published by Israel Book Shop. He also does freelance writing for hire. You can send any questions, comments, or ideas to MSchmutter@gmail.com.

 

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