How did it happen so quickly? Not long ago I was the youngest person on the playground. Now when I scan the faces around me, I calculate that I am the oldest one sitting here on the bleachers. Time seems to accelerate, doesn’t it? At first, the landscape passed me as if I were riding atop a slow-moving freight, but then, without warning, I found myself riding in style on a high-speed bullet train. The fields and faces began to blend into a blur as I hurtled toward my destination: the last depot, end of the line.
The realization that the ride ends sooner rather than later can work on a traveler’s emotional well-being. I have long resented the privilege and impudence of old guys: those self-possessed, opinionated, grumpy, and overbearing way-past-their-prime men we often see frowning at youth’s swagger and inked-up bodies. My view has always been that old folks are jealous of young folks because, well, young people have potential, while old people have all those track miles behind them. But, Holy Moly, now I am becoming all that I loathe about grumpy old guys.
I should make clear that my changes in temperament and tone have come partly from a bad parathyroid. Apparently when one or more of those little glands goes sour, the person hosting the dysfunctional gland pumps out way too much calcium for his or her own good. Imagine that! Among the liabilities of this condition is a downturn in the patient’s mood and general disposition. It’s true, a person’s behavior can be commandeered by the slightest change in blood chemistry. If you doubt that conclusion, try drinking six shots of vodka an hour before you meet your boss for a job performance review.
In short, I am quantifiably a bad-tempered old man. And I resent myself for being such a one. I stand before the bathroom mirror and “Boo!” myself. But until that bad gland is removed, I must get used to the little flares of temper and self-righteous behavior that punctuate each day. If I were to spill a few drops of wine on my wife beater T-shirt while eating dinner, I will get an instant fury flare-up that spreads to the immediate family, if not to the entire neighborhood. Look out world! How could this happen? I have become a cliché.
I have not yet stood on the front porch and screamed at the local children, “Get off my lawn!” But if a few children were to set up croquet wickets next door and start walloping a wooden ball toward my grass, I probably would. No, I definitely would. A little age and a lot of extra calcium will turn this old guy, usually a mild-mannered man, into the curmudgeon he has feared he might become.
In addition to the bad parathyroid (scheduled to come out soon), I have bad hearing, a bad back, kidney stones, a spot on my liver, another on my lung, and some plaque buildup on an artery or two, not to mention a host of other internal issues to monitor—all this a result of 70 years’ wear and some stretches of profligate living. Added up, these defects cause cantankerousness no matter what the calcium level in one’s blood might be. You get the picture. Best to stay the hell away from me if you chew with your mouth open.
Nevertheless, the triumph of mind over matter remains a dependable principle to which I subscribe. As one grows older, however, it becomes more difficult to endure the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” while remaining hopeful and positive. But to resign oneself to moans and groans is the same as yielding to a daily whipping, which I refuse to do.
I have found that exercise helps beat down flare-ups of anger. What’s more, counting to ten soon after I trip over the dog and knock over the floor lamp on my way to the hardwood also allays some of the steam from emotional outbursts. Also, reading serves as a mild deviation from present pangs of discomfort; one can easily get lost in a good book for hours before realizing that one should take several of those pills that the doctor prescribed for the general malaise of old people with high calcium issues. But exercising, counting, and reading are all mere deflections from core health deficits.
Maladies and blood chemistry aside, one must endure. See! I can smile no matter how out-of-sorts I am.
Hey, I’m talking to you!
Now leave me alone and stay the hell off my lawn.
P.S. I wrote the above article months ago. Since then, I had successful surgery. I am no longer grumpy. Just old.