'Old' is Just Another Word for Screwed

First, let’s define terms.  If you think you’re old and other people call you “Sir”, you’re old. Screwed is what you think it is.  Some would use the stronger term but there may be children present.

An enormous economic engine is tuned to profit from the inevitable journey to “not young” experienced by the citizens of our great nation and, to enhance the possibilities for maximizing the take, soothing euphemisms are introduced into the literature of aging.  “Senior citizens” suggests wise patriots who are revered by younger men and women for their presumed willingness to contribute their wisdom to the crusade for national greatness. 

“Get the suction lines attached, Clyde, we’re going to milk these babies dry.”

What demographic consumes the major amount of pharmaceuticals in this country?  Oh, yeah.  So pump a little more profit in…no, wait… pump a LOT MORE profit in those little life-saving pills and don’t spare the TV advertising expense to let our Senior Citizens know that creating miracle cures is what we do.

And how about a place for mom?  Or dad (if he hasn’t already headed south). A nice place that doesn’t smell like industrial strength urine when you enter the lobby. Run by compassionate people who, depending on the level of care provided, will make it work for the budget of the individual old person.

The fact is that there are many facilities out there that set a high bar of excellence for taking care of old people with all  their special needs, both physical and mental.  None of them are cheap.  If you want cheap go where the smell is not so grand.

We won’t even discuss, “Golden Years.” That vile canard was laid to rest the first time the Senior Citizen just missed getting to the flusher in time.

Don’t bitch about your Chevy burning too much oil when your odometer can’t find enough zeros to keep turning over.  That’s why getting screwed by life’s referee is just part of the deal we agreed to when we continued to play the game knowing at the end the score would not be in our favor.  We kept playing because it was the most thrilling, frustrating, lovely, exhausting, wonderful, exciting gift any creature could dream of receiving. Even knowing the final score, who wouldn’t vote to play?

O.K.  Your joints creak and a couple of them are freaking painful.  You can’t see.  You can’t pee.  You can’t hear the request to turn the TV down and you don’t remember turning it on.  And on and on and then you die. Send me in coach.  I’ll take the chance to play this game every time.  So many exceptional experiences but most of all: being with the love of my life…those special times.  Ball game.