Feeling Old … Or Not

Went to Walgreens recently to pick up a prescription and when the young woman behind the pharmacy counter asked me my name I said “Frankenberry – just like the cereal” like I always do to which there was just a kind of blank stare “huh?” response. Shit, dating yourself again Steve. When they have no idea of the cereal you’re referencing, where even showing them your Frankenberry tattoo probably isn’t going to help since they don’t know what the hell you’re talking about you will feel a bit old.

It is a cool tattoo though.

So yeah, I’m old, or older than I was yesterday when things seemed wide open, when I had dumb haircuts and bad clothes that I was proud of, when that oyster was there, when I didn’t start something new with “I’m old”.

I don’t really feel it though, sure, things creak, bending down comes with grunts and grabs at whatever’s close for the stand back ups, there are ankle cracks (I don’t think I’ll be sneaking up on up on anyone any time soon and I’d now be the first one discovered when trying to hide from the bad guys) I breathe a little heavier either from old bad habits or just the heavy sigh of the world we live in. Not quite sure of which. Both I guess, but I don’t feel old which I’ll take as a good thing, but I still am. Clocks are clocks after all.

I write some words at a blog, sometimes sing them, a sanity saver spot that lets me put them together, hopefully in some meaningful way and keep me going, help me feel as if I may have stories to tell that might be of interest to some, maybe create an image they can relate to, bring a smile or laugh or maybe the tap of a toe or two but the old persists, knocks on my door on occasion to remind, to tell me things.

Time: I’m a bit of a bitch right?

Me: Yeah, you are.

Now, this isn’t to be maudlin, bemoan the why’s and rail against clocks, I’m fully aware of time, but I still don’t feel it and I’m glad of that.

I’m still going at it with cats and a comfortable roof over a comfortable bed, though too often a one for the most furtive of sleeps (something the cats help ease) but still with vivid nightly dreams that are always colorful and hectic, sometimes sinister and menacing but also sometimes pretty and hopeful but all adding things to the noggin’s repertoire. I know that at my age I’m not my father at his same, I’m younger, I laugh at things he would never have laughed at though I might force it upon him in memory, “that’s some funny shit dad … really”.

I’m old Dad, but I’ve reached that spot where you always were in my mind, but only numerically and I’m just trying to take next steps. An evolution. I don’t feel old Dad, like I think you did of yourself sometimes, though these damned clocks keep trying to tell me otherwise.

(next step … ankle crack)

Son of a bitch.