thatsgettingold

Th-Th-That’s Old, Folks!

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Hi everyone! Hope your summer’s off to a swell start! Sorry I haven’t written more often, but lately I’ve been overwhelmed by laziness. (This is where Carrie would say something like, “What are you talking about? That’s your natural state!”.. or something with a lot more colorful colloquialisms!)

Anyway, I’m writing today because it’s my 69th birthday. Not sure if it’s something to celebrate or to run from. (Don’t you love the people who say cute things like, “Yeah, it’s my birthday, but I stopped counting,” as if that statement somehow puts the brakes on the advance of time.)

A few posts back, I pondered the question of when does ‘getting old’ simply turn into ‘being old.’ A celebratory birthday call this morning from my much older cousin — we’ll call her Barbara — gave me the answer. I’ll likely have to stop calling her my much older cousin soon, because once you’re old, it’s doesn’t matter if you’re 80 or 92…. you’re both old! It’s not like when you’re 13 and you don’t want your 8-year-old little brother hanging around with you anymore. When you’re old, you’re timeless — at least until you hit 100, in which case, you’ve joined an even more exclusive club! Then, they count living by the month!! (Like a baby.. full circle.)

“Hey how old’s your grandmother?”

“She’s 101 and 7 months!”

“She’s ADORABLE!… Can she hear me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, CONGRATULATIONS ON …. BEING OLD, GRANDMA!”

(Fart)

Anyway, Barbara and I came to the conclusion that you become old when you turn from 69 to 70! So next year, I will have to change the name of this blog from “That’s Getting Old” to “That’s Old, Folks!” That, according to my much older cousin, is when the cute humor of “What was the name of that book?” turns into “What’s a book?”

It’s when the world around you speeds up so much. “I don’t understand why all these cars need to be flying past me as if I’m standing still,” I’ll say to Carrie in the car.

Carrie: “Schmuck! You’re in PARK!”

It’s when you stop saying, “I can carry those boxes up into the attic,” and instead say, “We need to get rid of all this crap!”

It’s when you look at the photo album from your wedding and don’t recognize half the people in it. It’s OK, though, because they’re more than likely dead.

It’s when the requests to go out with friends on a weekend night narrow to a select few, and you still wish for a bad cold so you don’t have to go.

And, it’s when those nagging little aches and pains turn into more serious diagnoses. Knock on wood, we haven’t seen any of those yet, but your self-assessments become more frequent, and every new mole or pain that’s not muscular guarantee a trip to yet another new specialist.

But today’s not the day to think about those things. (What? You just did, ya freak!) Today’s the day to be thankful for the phone calls and good wishes from family and friends, and enjoy another year of (relative) good health … and much continued laughter. (One thing I did notice.. as you get older, the birthday cake gets smaller. A sheetcake from your 5th birthday becomes a cupcake for your 75th. Why? NOW you’re worried about diabetes??)

But check back in a year and we’ll see how things are going at 70! For now, I have to run … to the pharmacy, to pick up some prep for my upcoming colonoscopy! Wish me luck!!

The Christmas rush

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T’is the night before Christmas … and Carrie and I are going to the mall.

It appears that she ordered something online, exchanged it, and has to go to the physical store to pick it up. (Or something else.. I usually get this wrong!) But you have to understand the absurdity of this… Aside from the fact it’s Christmas Eve, Carrie absolutely hates the mall. In fact, even if we go on a weekday in July, she’ll say, “Why are we going the weekend before Christmas? It’ll be BEDLAM!” She’s an Amazonian (in the shopping sense) through and through. Her favorite expression, when she hears that someone needs something, is “You’ll have it in an hour!”

I was watching the news last night, and the reporter was talking about the Christmas rush at local malls, and they cut to a shot at a mall that showed a few people walking around, but not what you would expect 24 hours before Christmas Eve. More like what you’d see on a weekday in July.

We all know the statistics — that more and more people are shopping online, and things like Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals kind of take the air out of holiday shopping in stores.

Well, call me a relic. I LOVE going to the mall. The music, the decorations, the lights… I dunno, it gives a me a Christmas rush — not bad for a Jewish guy, yet quite unlike the rush you get, say, from inhaling whippets! But I digress.

(As an aside, I am equally dismayed by the fact that most stores have aisles and aisles of Christmas wrapping paper, stocking stuffers, ornaments and all, and the Chanukah stuff is relegated to an end cap at the end of aisle 9. There are candles, menorahs and platters that say ‘Latkes’ on them. Oh, and big fuzzy Jewish stars that you don’t know if it’s a pillow or something to hang on the door. That’s it. And leave it to the supermarkets to fill their Chanukah end caps with matzo and gefilte fish.. which, as we all know, have NOTHING to do with Chanukah. They must think, “OK, it’s another Jewish holiday.. break out the fish balls!”)

In a way, I’m glad the malls aren’t as crowded as they used to be. I don’t have to wrestle with anyone to get the last XL half-zip sweater in blue that’s now on sale for 65% off! And, we can stroll more leisurely as we gaze at the storefront windows, and sip our coffees as we go.

Here’s to getting out and seeing people on the holidays. Merry Christmas (and Happy Chanukah) to all, and to all.. a good night!

The Day of Atonement

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I remember as a kid asking my Dad, “What is Yom Kippur?”

He told me, “It’s the day when we ask for forgiveness for our sins.”

Being young, and mostly sin-free (though I’m sure my big brother would have a few in mind for me), I asked, “Why do we need a whole day for that?”

“You need to think about how you act, how you treat people, and to be a better person,” Dad said.

“So, what do we do?”

He explained to me that this was the most important day on the Jewish calendar, and that on this day, we fast. “That’s means we don’t eat for a whole day,” he explained to me.

That was a red flag. But as Vincent LaGuardia Gambini told the jury in “My Cousin Vinny” … “Wait, there’s more.”

“Well I would LOVE to hear this,” I imagined I would have said, had that movie been shot when I was six.

Dad said there’s no work on Yom Kippur. So, no homework or required reading? Up to this point, I’m in.

“Can we watch TV?”

“No,” he said. “The act of turning on the TV is considered work. So are turning on lights, lighting matches, or basically doing anything else.”

“Can I go out and play?”

“No,” he said. “That’s work.” Wait.. play is work? What am I, negotiating a contract with the Mets?? I just want to go outside and throw a ball around with my friends!!

As for turning on lights, in our house, you got to choose which light you wanted on. I said I wanted the light from the TV on. (Wrong answer.) It always was the bathroom. Looking back, that probably was the right call.

So, I thought, this should be one helluva day. No eating, watching TV, going out to play, talking on the phone.. (my wife Carrie answers the phone on Yom Kippur this way… “Hello, which Nazi is this calling me on a holiday?”)

Sensing that I wasn’t thrilled with the whole idea — what six-year-old would be? — he said, “But after the final shofar is blown, we get to have a big meal!” He had me at meal.

Ahh.. the meal. Mom would have been to Waldbaum’s, picking up the chubb (a gold whitefish.. no lie!), pickled herring in cream sauce, blintzes and sour cream, and more. And if we were lucky, she might open a can of Dole’s pineapple rings or purple plums in heavy syrup. That was it. One store, and fahrtik‘n shoin. Done.

Fast forward to 2024.

My mother would literally be rolling over in her grave if she knew what goes into the break-fast meal today.

First, everyone gets to have an order. An order?? My mother would put out a bowl of bananas and sour cream and say, “Here’s dinner.” And if you said you didn’t want it, she’d say, “Well, then, I guess you don’t want dinner.”

Today? My wife has to go to three bagel stores — the nephews and kids like the whole wheat everything bagels and light veggie tuna from Bagel Boss, while Carrie prefers the pumpernickel from Town Bagel, and I like the smooth whitefish salad and bialys from Long Island Bagel Cafe.. the one in North Bellmore, not Long Beach. Then, on to Pat’s Farms for tomatoes, cukes and onions, although the prices and quality aren’t what they used to be, before it turned itself from a farm stand into a mini-supermarket.

Don’t even get me started on the lox. Most of us prefer Nova, but there are a couple in every crowd who like the belly. (It’s saltier!) And, what would the break fast be without another curveball? My nephew likes lox spread — that’s small pieces of lox already mixed into the cream cheese, which, interestingly, meets the “no work” rule, because I’m pretty sure my Dad would say schmeering cheese on a bagel and cutting lox to put on top is work!

I will say, though, that it’s still quiet in the house. No TV, no music playing. That’s because when I go into the kids’ room to say goodnight, they’re under their blankets streaming TikTok videos, and listening with their earbuds. Also, we have enough lights on to guide the space station in for a landing.

Well, have a happy and healthy New Year everyone, an easy fast, and may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for another year. L’shana tovah!

You’re only as old as … your age

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All those aches and pains, and moments of forgetfulness, certainly make us think of ourselves as “getting old.” Well, let me tell you the best way to get over that. Sit at a lunch with REALLY old people!

I had the unfortunate circumstance of attending a funeral this weekend for my wife Carrie’s uncle. The family and his friends gathered, and Carrie and I sat at a table with some of the departed’s old friends. On the back side of 85, these folks were still with it mentally (mostly), but they had other problems. The husband can’t hear, and as such doesn’t so much speak as YELL… in ALL CAPS!

“SO, DAVID, IT’S BEEN A LOT OF YEARS. YOU STILL EDITING?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Still doing it.”

“WHAT???”

“I SAID, YES.. STILL DOING IT!”

“DOING WHAT??”

“EDITING.”

“YOU’RE AN EDITOR??”

And so it went.

At this point, I was hoping the attention we had drawn by literally shouting at each other would shift off of me, and thankfully, at that moment, his wife asked him to get her her morning pills.

Now, I take three pills every morning, and think that’s a lot. This women takes nine pills in the morning, and as she put each one in her mouth before swallowing it down with water, she gave a little play-by-play. “This one’s for diabetes,” she crowed, taking a gulp. “This one’s for my blood pressure.” Another gulp. On she went. Someone else at the table commented, “They’re very colorful pills.” (Hey, an opening for a wisecrack remark that would really kick the conversation into gear. But it wasn’t my shot to take.) The woman replied. “That’s how I can tell them apart.” (Not quite the pointed pith I was hoping for.) Anyway, I thought they looked like those weird-flavored jellybeans you see in those specialty candy stores. Her liver pill looked like the “vomit” flavor, while her thyroid medication looked like the flavor “Leaking Rectum.” (Or did I just confuse that with my wife’s favorite nail polish color? You know I would love the job of naming nail polish. I’ve got it all figured out. Just find anything random. Literally… ANYTHING… RANDOM… and you’ve nailed it. “Dumpster Dive” — a greenish-grayish, and “Itchy Elbows” — pinkish-reddish, are two that I think could really sell!)

But back to the lunch. After the woman had taken her pills, she told her husband he needed to put drops in her eyes. He didn’t budge. “I NEED MY DROPS,” she yelled. He reached into his pocket and said, “TILT YOUR HEAD BACK.” By now, everyone was watching this.

His hand wasn’t steady, her head wasn’t steady. This would not go well.

“HOLD STILL,” he said.

“It’s running down into my ear!!”

Moments later, “You’re putting in too many drops!!”

“WELL, YOU KEEP MOVING AROUND.”

“I’M NOT MOVING!!!”

When I looked over, she was wiping drops off her cheek and chin. The husband beamed as if he had just completed a delicate brain surgery. The wife’s rapid-fire blinking indicated that none of the drops actually made it into her eyes.

Speaking of drops … Believe it or not, not a single drop of alcohol had been consumed.

The day wore on, until it was time to leave. You know, for a long time, I was under the clearly mistaken impression that saying ‘goodbye’ meant you’re leaving. Apparently, goodbye really means, “so what else is new?”

“It was so great to see you. Wish it could have been under better circumstances. But I’ll call you and we’ll get together soon! Take care now.”

“Thanks, you too … say, was that a new car I saw you drive up in?

“Yeah, you like it? Funny story…”

The kids, and a 62-year-old child we’ll call “David,” fell to the floor, writhing, kicking the air and loudly moaning as if the act of leaving held the only key to our survival. But as the grownups prattled on, I realized that I was ABLE to writhe on the floor and kick the air. And NOTHING HURT! So take that, aging. You’re going to have do more than make me forget a few ‘Jeopardy’ answers before you get me. Besides, I saw a report this week that said 70 is the new 40, due to how much we exercise and generally take better care of ourselves than our grandparents did. So that should get me to about 110. Hey, original black-hoodie guy with the scythe… suck on that!!

I’m in quite a pickle

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Been away a while. I had fallen into a deep depression. I’m better now. I’ll explain.

You know how when you wake up in the morning and go to brush your teeth, or shave, and you’re kind of tired, and you don’t have your glasses on, so everything seems kind of blurry but okay? Well, about two weeks ago, I had the misfortune of putting my glasses on before the morning ritual. And what I saw, quite frankly, made my crepe-y skin crawl!

I finally got a good look at myself, and that’s what spiraled me into the depths of despair. My eyes can now be penalized by airlines for exceeding the 50-pound bag limit. From the back, with the size of my old-man ears, I look like an AMC Gremlin with the doors open. (No rear-ending jokes, please!) And I don’t even want to talk about the tangled forest growing out from my nostrils. So I dealt with it the only way I know how: I locked myself in my room for 13 days with nothing but two 1.75-liter bottles of Bombay Sapphire, until my wife threatened me with staying, so I came out. (Spoiler alert: She stayed anyway. Pass the gin.)

That’s when I realized, I gotta get in shape! As the great Mickey Mantle often said, “If I knew I was going to live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.” I wasn’t quite sure how getting in shape would reduce my eye bags or close the ear doors on my head car, but I needed a transition to this next part, and this is the best I could come up with.  #lazywriting #yougetwhatyoupayfor

One of my cousins, who works with seniors, has been hocking me (pestering, for the non-Yiddish speakers) for months now about playing this relatively new game called pickleball. Sounds like something you’d get at a country fair down South… take a pickle, roll it around in dough and breading, deep-fry it, and voila… a pickleball!

But what it is, is a game similar to tennis, played with a paddle instead of a racket, on a lined court with a net, only shrunk way down. (“What is this, a tennis court for ants??”) I asked my friend Matt if he had heard of pickleball, and here’s what he told me:

“To me pickleball is a blend of tennis and paddleball—it’s like a corned beef sandwich with cheese—you could put them together, except that you wind up ruining both.”

Apparently, though, pickleball has become the ‘in’ game among seniors. And there was quite a controversy at North Shore Towers here on Long Island, largely a senior community where Matt’s 90-year-old mother lives. It seems they converted the basketball court there for pickleball, but the players complained that the out-of-bounds area was too small and they could get hurt chasing down balls. Which leads me to wonder: Don’t you have to first get some kind of momentum going before there’s any injury risk? Could they shuffle into a fence and break a hip??

Meanwhile, Matt wondered who at the Towers is even playing pickeball, let alone basketball? Everyone who lives there has got a walker and a home attendant. For them, Matt said, WALKING is a contact sport!

In fact, he overheard a conversation from a senior league pickleball tournament at the Towers. This is actual dialogue:

“Murray, do you see the ball?”

“No, I can’t see anything. Am I moving yet?”

Personally, I’d like to get into a game with Murray and the boys.. I’m pretty sure I can take them! But after running them ragged and winning the day, I’d have to look myself in the mirror, and .. well, you know how THAT will turn out!