Growing Old Gracelessly

Can it be that little Bobby Coskrey, that cute little chubby-faced kid whose multitude of photographs, the pride of a near psychotically overindulgent mother, inundate that page of a musty old album, is not a septuagenarian? No, that’s not a dirty old man, but rather a senior citizen, of impeccable credentials, a 60-year-old coot, La Grand Codger, a Royless Gabby Hayes and old timer, the Abe Vigoda of the East Cooper, someone that young whippersnappers refer to as “Pops,” an authentic old goat, a boatless Ancient Mariner?

In a word, a very cruel and hollow sounding one, now that I mention it, “Yes.” I, Bob Coskrey, the erstwhile essence of milk-breathed, talcum-powdered, fan-eyes innocence, have been, in a flash of 58 years, transmogrified into a penultimate-breathed, liniment-soaked, dead-eyed, jaded Grandee of Geezerdom.

But, where did all the damn time go? It was only last month, it seems, that my mother forgot to (yeah, right, Ma) pick me up after my first day at grammar school, only last week that I supped my first beer and judge it nasty (thought I would inexplicably drink 442,684 in the 44 years), and only yesterday that I fell out of my honeymoon bed, severely damaging my ego, while my libido, fortuitously, remained perfectly intact.

But that’s a rather stupid question, rhetorical or literal, typical, perhaps, of someone of my withering faculties—my God, I wish that were dandruff on my shoulders and not brain cells.

I remember only vaguely all my other milestone birthdays, 30, 40 and 50. Frankly, I never thought much about them, because I always felt mentally and physically younger than those ages. Even now, for that matter, I don’t feel any different than when I was 25. In fact, I’m probably better off, health-wise, than I was then, since now I exercise, then I didn’t. I probably read and write more than I did then too.

Certainly, as I look in the mirror each morning, I can see changes. Less hair, and what there is, is grayer, a few lines here and there. It’s a bit covering, and I’ve actually considered avoiding that particular regiment, the mirror, altogether. Maybe I could get along without it. I just won’t look at myself anymore. Stevie Wonder does it. Why not? It’s not necessary to see myself in order to shave, brush my teeth, trim my beard, comb my hair. I can learn to do without the mirror, and my dear wife will be more than happy to help me with the fine details, if I happen to miss a few things here and there. Besides, it will prepare her for the personal attendant duties required during my septuagenarian period.

Okay, well that takes care of that torturous part of the aging process. I will never have to look at my sagging, prunifying visage any longer. I can just check with Barbara every now and then.

Me: Tell me, dear, do I look more like Walter Matthau or Buddy Ebsen today? Bob Hope or Gregory Peck? What? Bea Arthur, you say? Well, at least I’m still masculine in appearance.

But really, that’s not it. Sure, I don’t look like I did 30 years ago, but I don’t expect to. Then again, I don’t think I look 60 either. In fact, in the right light, I could easily pass for 58. Ask Anybody. Ask Stevie Wonder.

But I repeat, that’s not it. I think what it is is when I consider the normal life span for an American male, and the numbers I get are 74 to 76, that’s when I really catch a whiff of the embalming fluid.

Damn, I don’t even have 20 years left, maybe 15 or 16, and how many of those will be of tolerable quality? With my luck, not only will I be stuck in some nursing home in less than 10 years, but it will be a nursing home located in Goose Creek, or North Charleston, or even Ladson, God’s righteous retribution for my years of excoriating those proud communities in article after article.

And, of course, the owners of the home will know exactly who I am and will delight in exacting their just revenge upon my gnarled and helpless body. And to make my Hell complete, I will possess just enough mental acumen o be aware of where I am, but not enough to offer any resistance, verbal or otherwise.

Nurse: “Enjoying your gruel this morning, Mr. Nasty-tongued, Writer Man? Here’s a copy of the June 1998 edition of the East Cooper Monthly. You really enjoyed poking fun at us then, didn’t you, when you were young, able-bodied, and safely ensconced in your lower-middle class Mt. Pleasant palace. Oh, is the coffee too hot for you? Let me put some ice in for you—oops, I spilled it right in your lap. And we just had that little old prostate surgery yesterday, didn’t we? Well, shame on me, but not quite as much as is on you though, you bad boy. Why, just look at the naughty things you said about us nice Goose Creekers back then, only 8 short years from the day we annexed your town and the City of Charleston.”

I try unsuccessfully to complain, as she wheels me out to the asphalt parking lot for my daily ultraviolet radiation sunbath.

Nurse: “Oh wow, Mr. Coskrey, it must be 100 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade today. I’ll leave you here to soak up some of those healthy rays, and I’ll be back for you in a few hours. Who knows, it might even dry up the skin cancer.”

But most biting of all the disadvantages attendant my ancient status is that I can no longer indulge in medium term, much less long-term planning:

1. A roof with a 20 year warranty
2. A lifetime supply of anything, except, maybe, Viagra
3. Any tree that grows less than 2 feet a year
4. A Hugo Boss suit—unless I plan to be laid out in it

I know what you’re thinking: “Get a life, you whimpering old windbag, even it it’s only for 15 years. If it’s flying by that damn fast, you’d better not waste any of your valuable minutes whining about something you can’t do anything to change anyway.”

And it should make you happy to know that I’m going to take your advice. I’m simply going to live my life to the max and not worry about getting old. Besides, there are always face-lifts, Viagra patches, and penile implants, and by the time I reach the critical stage, they’ll probably have head or even full body transplants, at the speed science is advancing these days.

And I will continue to look boldly into the mirror. I guess even seeing a reflection that one day may resemble the “Crypt Keeper” is better than no reflection at all, vampires notwithstanding.