An Old Man Laments

  

by Pa Rock

Squisherman of Soles

I'm an old man, I look in the mirror and I see that.   I wasn't always an old man, but somewhere along the trail of life, old age showed up and overtook me.  I act like an old man, too.  It takes me longer to stand than it did just a few months ago, I itch in places that I can no longer reach, and my bones pop and creak in Calypso rhythms.  I lose my balance nearly as often as I lose my phone, or car keys, or patience.

I have doctors for just about any malady I can spell - and for a few that I can't.  They know me in cardiac rehab;  they know me in physical rehab;  and, if I am prescribed many more pills, they will know me in drug rehab.  The dermatologist has cut enough skin and growths off my flabby old body to make a zombie, a big one, and there are days when a winch would be helpful for getting out of bed - or off of the toilet.

I dress like an old man, too.  I wear an old bucket hat like fishermen wear, although I'm too impatient to fish.  Most days I wear shorts, even in winter, because they are easy to put on and take off, and I wear sandals for the same reason, but I wear socks with my sandals, like old men do, and sometimes I roll forward and land on the floor while trying to pull my socks on.  If I suddenly find myself splayed out of the floor following a rollover, it takes two grown men and a winch to put me back on my feet.

There's that winch, again.  Guess I should invest in one.  I have a friend who has a winch on the front bumper of his outdoorsy car, not because he has any need for a winch, but simply because it looks cool.

I just used the word "cool" in a non-weather context - more proof that I am an old man.  Right, Daddy-O?

And speaking of the weather, as of this morning it has rained four days in a row here in the Ozark hills.  The entire Memorial (Decoration) Day weekend was decorated with thunder and lightening and rain.  I like rain because it keeps the yard green and gives me a break from having to carry water to the outdoor plants, but the constant rain also means that the soles of my sandals squish as I wade across the yard to check the mail, and my socks get wet.

Old men like to check the mail, but they hate getting their socks wet.

It's always something.  Every old man knows that.

When did life go from thoughts of lusty wenches to rusty winches?  The old man in the mirror probably knows, but he's not talking, at least not coherently.

If you should happen to come across me wandering the streets in wet socks, please lead me home.  Remember, your time's coming.