Ichabod, type faster…

Last time we spoke, I was in the final fortnights of my fantastic 20s.  Honestly, at first, entering my 30s wasn’t something that I was looking forward to doing.  But time waits for no one, time marches on, and all of those other cliched phrases.  But living in youth-obsessed Los Angeles has helped me to realize that being old is a misunderstood art form.  In the past few months, I’ve learned a few of the benefits of being elderly, or “youthfully challenged.”

Osteoporosis: Sure, you hear that’s it’s bad, and that your bones become brittle, but I look on the bright side with my bifocal shades, you get to drink a lot of milk.  I like milk.  Milk likes me.  I like milk, especially with prune juice.   

Knee replacement: Years of squatting as a catcher and spinning around throwing a discus has guaranteed me a lifetime of occasional, weird knee issues.  This also guarantees me my own chauffeur.  Don’t be jealous.  Everybody should have their own chauffeur, but everybody doesn’t.  My wheelchair pusher person is the best there is.  But I guess y’all ain’t that lucky, huh?  Suckers.

Senior Citizen Discounts: There was a time when the local IHOP knew me by name.  Now, they know me by my Ben Gay scent and my posse of silver- and blue-haired homies.  Getting stuff half off is the greatest thing since getting stuff half off.  Eh…uh…did I just repeat myself?  Which leads me to the next thing on the list…Alzheimer’s.  Some people see it as the beginning of the end.  I see it as a new start.  I can’t wait to start forgetting all the stuff that I wish I couldn’t remember.  Like the time, my identity was stolen, but then the dude gave it back, talkin’ ’bout he needed to have a better one.  Or when they rejected me when I volunteered to help at Ground Zero because they didn’t want me to contaminate the site.  Some things are better off forgotten.  Speaking of forgetting, I’m having my grandson, Ichabod, type this up for me…since I can’t see the keyboard…and I didn’t even know I had a kid to have a kid to be my grandson.  What was I saying?

Tai chi: You can catch me in the park with the posse.  stretching.  Really slowly.  Really really slowly.  Um, what was I saying?

Incontinence: Yep.  I said it.  While the rest of you are running around looking for a restroom when you’re out and about, I’m chillin’–with a personal, portable porta-potty.  Damn right.  Beat that!  I’m saving water, paper, time, resources, etc.  I’m going green.  Saving the planet!

Clubbing: Clubbing?  Who needs it?  Standing in lines for eternity in the cold and heat.  Paying off bouncers to let you in.  Buying overly expensive drinks for overly cheap people just so they can overly enthusiastically leave the overly packed club with someone else that’s overly dressed.  Well, I’m through with that.  Had it up to here with it.  No more clubs for yours truly.  It’s the doctor’s office from here on out.  Umm hmm.  You heard me.  Look, the wait at the doctor’s office can be quicker than waiting in line at a club.  No bouncers.  Hell, nurses look better than bouncers anyway.  And who needs to spend money on drinks when I can get drugs…from my doctor…legally.  It’s not loud.  I can mack on some of these 70-year-old fillies and they’ll hear what I’m saying–with or without a hearing aid.

Freedom: I can do whatever I want.  WHATEVER.  No one tells me what to do.  If I want to sleep just after Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy goes off, then I can do it.  You can’t stop me.  He can’t stop me.  She can’t stop me.  I can’t even stop me.  I start feeling sleepy around 6 pm.  The night can’t handle a wild boy like me.  That’s why I give it a break and never go out.  Westside!

Mr. ED: Can’t wait to try Viagra and see if it’s really 4 hours.  You’re looking at the new smiling spokesman for Levitra.  Call me Bob.  My heart should be able to handle it.  Haven’t had the triple bypass yet…

30 ain’t so bad, as I have proven already.  Excuse me, youngins, I’ve got to go the library and get some sleep.  Have an uneventful life, kids!  And get off my lawn…