By Mordechai Schmutter
I’m getting older, and nobody cares.
I’ve been getting older for a while now, but I haven’t said anything, because I was kind of hoping it would go away. But it hasn’t, so I might as well accept it.
Nobody thinks of themselves as old. Even people who are clearly old. It’s kind of like driving, where everyone going slower than you is an idiot, and everyone going faster than you is a meshugeneh. But you’re neither. Even if you’re the fastest person on the road, you’re not thinking, “OK, I guess I’m fast.” You’re thinking, “Everyone is an idiot.”
Also, age doesn’t hit you at once. Age creeps up on you slowly (the same way age drives) and suddenly you look around one day and say, “Wow! I guess I’m old!”
Today is that day.
Okay, so I’m not that old. I’m definitely past the age where fans meet me and go, “Oh, I thought you’d be older.” But I’m not old enough to go on a diatribe about you youngsters and your emojis and your internets and how, in my day, we didn’t have Pesachdik streimel cookies.
Actually, I do that last thing. I did it like two weeks ago.
But I notice that I’ve been slowly collecting a lot of the traits that I’ve always associated with old people.
Some things you already know about. For example, my metabolism has slowed down tremendously since I was a kid. Frequent readers already know that, because every couple of weeks I write about my futile attempts to lose weight, because the thing about dieting is that it’s all you talk about. And yes, the people around you get annoyed, but what else are you going to talk about? You’re starving! I go to an exercise class a few times a week, and that’s all we talk about.
“How much did you lose?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. How much did you lose?”
And yes, weight gain is an age thing. When I was younger, I was able to eat whatever I wanted, whereas nowadays, I feel like I barely eat and I’m still constantly gaining weight. Constantly. One time, just for kicks, I decided to weigh myself immediately before exercise class and then again right after class, to see how much weight I’d lost. And when I did, I found that I’d gained about a pound just working out. I’m not even sure why I go.
So apparently, I don’t exercise so I can live longer. I exercise so that when I’m about to die, I can think, “Well, at least I don’t have to exercise anymore.”
Another thing that frequent readers already know about is my back issues. I have a herniated disc, which, even though it’s not currently as bad as it was, it’s never totally out of my mind, so it’s another thing I’m constantly thinking about, along with food. But apparently, it’s age-related, at least somewhat. I thought it was about the fact that I have a job that requires me to sit in one place, leaning forward and staring in the same direction for several hours a day. Mankind wasn’t really built to do that. For thousands of years, nobody had a job where they had to stare at a screen all day, except maybe beekeepers. And even beekeepers had occasional exercise in the form of running.
But then I read that 80-something percent of the population has back problems, and every single one of these people keep talking to me about them. They’re all like, “Yeah, when I was 36, I had back problems, so what I did was I learned how to bend in half backwards.” Or something. And 36 is not a number I’m making up as an example here. That’s the number they all use–36. And all I could think was, “Wait. I’m 36.” So apparently it’s an age thing. No one told me this when I first turned 36.
“Yeah, 36th year. That’s back problems. Good luck with that.”
I’ve also been going to the doctor more often. I started out going just once, but now the doctor is obsessed with me. He keeps telling me to come back.
My entire twenties, I barely went to the doctor, and I did fine. But when I finally started going for my back, the doctor who saw me asked, “Who’s your PCP?” And I said, “I don’t know. You, I guess.” And he said, “Wait. You haven’t been to a doctor?” So his practice assigned me a doctor, who has, ever since then, been making me come back about once a month. Like there’s a certain number of times in your life you have to go to a doctor, and he’s trying to catch me up.
Mostly, he’s been giving me shots I was apparently supposed to get in my twenties. Look, I have nothing against shots, except for the obvious needle stuff, but I went through my twenties and didn’t get these diseases. I think I’m fine.
But he’s freaking out. He asked, “You haven’t been to the doctor?”
And I said, “I wasn’t sick.”
And he said, “But you haven’t gotten all these immunizations!”
And I said, “Well, I wasn’t getting sick.”
So he said, “Immunizations are supposed to happen before you get sick!”
And I said, “Then we still have time!”
So now I have to keep coming back to get shots before I get sick after I already didn’t get sick. It’s kind of like when the insurance company notices that due to some mix-up, you haven’t paid premiums all year, so they make you pay for the months you missed where you both know nothing happened. Every time I go, they give me one shot.
So I asked, “How about you jab me with all the needles in one visit?”
And he said, “No. Then you’ll get sick.”
Another age thing that I’ve noticed is that I’ve been making more and more dad jokes around the house. Just ask my kids–Hungry, Starving, Bored, and Serious. And my wife, Not Amused.
No one’s amused. A lot of kids say, “My father’s always repeating the same dumb jokes.”
Yeah, but it’s always in reaction to the same boring complaints!
For example, my kids tell me, “You always say the same thing: ‘Hi, Hungry; I’m Totty.’”
Well, you keep saying, “I’m hungry.” What do you think I’m going to say? You didn’t learn from the first 500 times?
Yes, all you Totties keep making the same joke, but your kids keep giving you the same setup. How many different punch lines do they expect you to come up with? It’s not even like they’re really hungry. And you don’t have the mental energy to deal with this right now. You’re busy.
“Hi, Busy; I’m Starving.”
Because maybe that’s what we want–someone to keep the conversation going. To follow this joke to its natural conclusion and finally put it to bed.
“Hi, Hungry; I’m Totty.”
“Yeah, I know you’re Totty. I just said, ‘Totty, I’m hungry.’ So you’re OK with changing my name to Hungry just because one day I was hungry?”
“It’s not one day. You’re always hungry.”
“Why would I be introducing myself? I’m your son.”
“Hi, Your Son; I’m–”
“You named me at my b’ris. After Mommy’s grandfather. She’s going to be hopping mad that you’re changing my name because of a joke. I’m telling you I need food.”
“Fine. Go ask Hopping Mad.”
But never once did my kids take the bait.
And then there are smaller things that I do differently. For example, I find that lately I’ve been making the words on my computer screen bigger. My other option, I guess, is to lean farther forward, which is not good for my back.
I’ve also suddenly noticed that I’ve been drinking a lot of hot tea and carrying hard candies.
Sure, I have reasons. At the moment, I have a cough, and to the little kid still living somewhere inside me, a cough is a medical excuse to eat candy. (And if it’s medical, the candy has zero calories.) And the tea started as a throat thing, too, but now I drink it because it’s a pareve way to get caffeine after suppers when you’re trying to cut down on soda.
See, everything we old people do is not for just one reason, but for a bunch of reasons that accumulate over the years, because we’ve had a lot of years, and when you tell us it’s just because we’re old, we don’t want to get into a whole long explanation, because we don’t have the time for it. Because we’re old. By the time we finish explaining this to you, we’ll both be old, and then you’ll understand it on your own. So why bother?
Another thing I noticed is that, as I get older, my stories get longer.
How so? Find out in Part 2.
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.
