GRUMPY OLD MAN

It is weird getting old. I am 73 now. Knock on wood. Older than my dad ever was. He died at 72, on the crapper, which was somehow fitting. He had trouble with constipation for years.

He was shacked up with an 18-year-old girl whom I met one time. Hurray for him. He had the right idea.

When he divorced my raving hysterical critical bitch of a mother--I started to type "monster," god rest her soul--he bought a Cadillac and a boat and found this young woman. Bless him. Wish he'd done it sooner. Unfortunately, he only lived two more years to enjoy his freedom.

Now, here I am, getting older and grumpier every year. Everything pisses me off. Everything hurts. My hands, my knees, my shoulders. Sometimes, I'll be sitting still, minding my own business, when for no reason I get a sudden jolt of pain, about a five or six on a scale of one to ten, with ten being enough to make you pass out.

I never thought growing old would be fun, but I pictured it as a time of leisure, relaxation and satisfaction. I assumed that you would not feel as much pain, that your pain receptors would somehow be dulled. Good luck with that.

So I'm grumpy. In fact, my son calls me Grumpy, like one of the seven dwarfs.

And he's right. I am grumpy. You would be, too. Or will be. 

-- Roger

Copyright © 2012, Roger R. Angle