| THE MIDDLE AGES IS DEBI'S NEW SERIES ABOUT FACING THE CHALLENGES OF AGING IN A YOUTH OBSESSED CULTURE WITH GRACE, FINESSE AND HUMOR... WHILE THE GRIM REAPER NIPS AT YOUR HEELS. BELOW IS JUST ONE OF THE SORDID TALES. |
TIMELESS
First it pissed me off; then it scared me. There I was sitting with my fellow baby boomers,
listening to them moan about getting old.
“Not me,” said I. “You’ll never hear me say those words.”
“No,” they proclaimed, “it’s inevitable. Lowering levels of glucose and triglycerides in the blood,
ultimately resulting in exsanguination…it’s all coming…get ready.”
“Nay, no,” I begged. “Age is just a number.” Arms folded across pot bellies, furrowed faces looked at me with
condescending rancor. Yellowed dangling teeth smiled in superciliousness as they all smirked and pointed to
charts showing where we were on the life expectancy meter. Fearfully watching the age gauge pointer creeping
toward death, I remembered two days ago when I found my reading glasses in the freezer. Oh, my God! Were
these people right?
As I considered whether or not to succumb to Gerontophobia, I became more worried about Dementophobia as
my mind, without my permission, drifted back to November 13, 1969.
Now, I never was a Rolling Stones fan. I considered them tacky, and a direct threat to the Beatles, and thus a
jeopardy to my plans to marry Paul McCartney and live a charmed life. And just a few months earlier, that nasty
business when Brian Jones was discovered motionless at the bottom of his swimming pool, a fatality referred to
by the coroner as "Death by misadventure". Shameless! But, when invited to drive to Dallas to a concert with a
darling fraternity boy, I overlooked the disrepute of the band and jumped at the chance.
Determined to remain unimpressed, I entered Moody Coliseum with a distinct frown and contemptuous brow.
We all sat in our various hippy stupors of anticipation, quietly awaiting the crown royals to take the stage. I fell
asleep. Well, actually, I passed out, but that’s a story for another time.
What woke me up was not so much the sound of the music, but the sheer energy of Mick Jagger. I was
astounded. To my surprise, they were all incredibly talented. Even then, Keith Richards was so skinny that
when he turned sideways, he looked like a zipper, and Mick Taylor was a scrawny kid and a paltry substitute for
Brian Jones. But could they ever kick up a tune! Never before or since have I seen a performer parade and
sing with such kinetic overdrive. He pranced and completely mesmerized the audience. Even me. At the time,
he was 26 years old. As a young…very young… teenager, I could not believe that anyone that age could be
so indefatigable. I set aside my resentment for his scandalous infamy, the fact that he did not even show up for
Brian’s funeral, and, frankly, his odd appearance. Suddenly, none of that mattered, and I was swept away by
the magnetism of his presence.
I returned to the present to hear one of my friends point to her thinning hair saying, “I’ll have a bald spot like
my husband before you know it.” Grabbing a bag to breathe in, I looked at her monk headed husband, and, to
cover my phalacrophobia, said, “yeh, Mike, you are so bald, that when you wear a turtleneck, you look like a
broken condom.”
Then, with pursed, wrinkled lips, his wife handed me an article entitled “The heartbreak of Psoriasis, Feared
turning to Leprosy for our American Baby Boomers. I hid my Rhytiphobia by responding to my friend’s cracked
mouth by saying, “Brenda, you know you’re old when your idea of a night out is sitting on the patio.”
She winced and replied, “Debi, do you know what they call a blonde with half a brain? Gifted.”
One could say I stomped out the door, but I prefer to pronounce that I made a graceful exit so I would not be
late to see the movie Shine A Light, a Martin Scorsese film about The Rolling Stones. Still steaming from the
conversation, I took my seat, crunched my tub of popcorn and waited for the movie to start. To my complete
surprise and astonishment, the film was really good! Mick Jagger was the same…he was just the same. Now,
64, he has all the charisma he ever did. And thus did my Thanatophobia subside, yielding to my dedication to
the notion that even though, my idea of weight lifting is standing up, and I confuse having a clear conscience
with having a bad memory, life is good, and the heart does not age, it only softens as it palpitates to the rhythm
of the beat!
First it pissed me off; then it scared me. There I was sitting with my fellow baby boomers,
listening to them moan about getting old.
“Not me,” said I. “You’ll never hear me say those words.”
“No,” they proclaimed, “it’s inevitable. Lowering levels of glucose and triglycerides in the blood,
ultimately resulting in exsanguination…it’s all coming…get ready.”
“Nay, no,” I begged. “Age is just a number.” Arms folded across pot bellies, furrowed faces looked at me with
condescending rancor. Yellowed dangling teeth smiled in superciliousness as they all smirked and pointed to
charts showing where we were on the life expectancy meter. Fearfully watching the age gauge pointer creeping
toward death, I remembered two days ago when I found my reading glasses in the freezer. Oh, my God! Were
these people right?
As I considered whether or not to succumb to Gerontophobia, I became more worried about Dementophobia as
my mind, without my permission, drifted back to November 13, 1969.
Now, I never was a Rolling Stones fan. I considered them tacky, and a direct threat to the Beatles, and thus a
jeopardy to my plans to marry Paul McCartney and live a charmed life. And just a few months earlier, that nasty
business when Brian Jones was discovered motionless at the bottom of his swimming pool, a fatality referred to
by the coroner as "Death by misadventure". Shameless! But, when invited to drive to Dallas to a concert with a
darling fraternity boy, I overlooked the disrepute of the band and jumped at the chance.
Determined to remain unimpressed, I entered Moody Coliseum with a distinct frown and contemptuous brow.
We all sat in our various hippy stupors of anticipation, quietly awaiting the crown royals to take the stage. I fell
asleep. Well, actually, I passed out, but that’s a story for another time.
What woke me up was not so much the sound of the music, but the sheer energy of Mick Jagger. I was
astounded. To my surprise, they were all incredibly talented. Even then, Keith Richards was so skinny that
when he turned sideways, he looked like a zipper, and Mick Taylor was a scrawny kid and a paltry substitute for
Brian Jones. But could they ever kick up a tune! Never before or since have I seen a performer parade and
sing with such kinetic overdrive. He pranced and completely mesmerized the audience. Even me. At the time,
he was 26 years old. As a young…very young… teenager, I could not believe that anyone that age could be
so indefatigable. I set aside my resentment for his scandalous infamy, the fact that he did not even show up for
Brian’s funeral, and, frankly, his odd appearance. Suddenly, none of that mattered, and I was swept away by
the magnetism of his presence.
I returned to the present to hear one of my friends point to her thinning hair saying, “I’ll have a bald spot like
my husband before you know it.” Grabbing a bag to breathe in, I looked at her monk headed husband, and, to
cover my phalacrophobia, said, “yeh, Mike, you are so bald, that when you wear a turtleneck, you look like a
broken condom.”
Then, with pursed, wrinkled lips, his wife handed me an article entitled “The heartbreak of Psoriasis, Feared
turning to Leprosy for our American Baby Boomers. I hid my Rhytiphobia by responding to my friend’s cracked
mouth by saying, “Brenda, you know you’re old when your idea of a night out is sitting on the patio.”
She winced and replied, “Debi, do you know what they call a blonde with half a brain? Gifted.”
One could say I stomped out the door, but I prefer to pronounce that I made a graceful exit so I would not be
late to see the movie Shine A Light, a Martin Scorsese film about The Rolling Stones. Still steaming from the
conversation, I took my seat, crunched my tub of popcorn and waited for the movie to start. To my complete
surprise and astonishment, the film was really good! Mick Jagger was the same…he was just the same. Now,
64, he has all the charisma he ever did. And thus did my Thanatophobia subside, yielding to my dedication to
the notion that even though, my idea of weight lifting is standing up, and I confuse having a clear conscience
with having a bad memory, life is good, and the heart does not age, it only softens as it palpitates to the rhythm
of the beat!
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