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Great aging, great benefits

Burt's Eye View

One of the greatest benefits of aging is no longer straining to make your own excuses.

For example, if I can’t keep up with a much-younger hiker, he’ll say, “Hey, good effort, man. I hope I can be as spry when I’m as ol… uh, have as much experience as you do.”

If I do keep up, the praises become more ridiculous than participation trophies: “Good for you, man! I hope I can be as spry when… well, you know.”

The message is clear — at your age, nobody expects all that much from you.

It’s the reason the PGA runs a senior golf tour. Road races are broken into age groups for the same reason — to give the knobby-kneed, gray-haired crowd a chance at a medal, too.

In baseball fantasy camps, retired Major Leaguers, once admired for their speed and agility, are pitted against retired plumbers, doctors and lawyers. “How wonderful,” the spectators cheer. But what they’re thinking is, “for a bunch of creaky old guys.”

That’s another benefit of aging. When I was a kid and made strange noises, grown-ups shushed me. “Stop being rude.” Now that I’m, uh, not a kid, people simply accept that I snap, crackle and pop, moan and groan, and let fly with a few other sound effects that used to get me sent to my room.

Offer an opinion in your 20s and 30s, and people call you a jerk. By your 50s and 60s, they’re trying to figure out if you’re cracking wise or you’re merely deranged. By the time I graduate to my 70s, I’ll be able to pop off with most any crazy statement and people will chuckle, “Aren’t old geezers and their quaint ideas just adorable!”

Benefits of aging — people think you’re cute, AND they give you discounts. Cups of coffee, early bird buffets, travel packages, entire senior communities, all at a discount. Why? Because people think we’re not in full possession of much of anything anymore, neither brains, nor brawn, nor cash.

If I ask where to find something in a store, I’ve graduated from, “It’s over there, 16 aisles past the whatzits and 30 rows back” to “Wait here and rest a bit. I’ll get it for you.”

I could go get the thing myself, but that would ruin their perfectly good lowered expectations. The young punks don’t realize I haven’t changed. Except for the color of my hair. And the addition of a few dozen pounds. Some wrinkles. The aforementioned sound effects.

And the loss of a critical spirit — against myself, I mean. I’ve realized that things that used to mortify me just don’t matter.

The other day on my way to work, I looked down to see food spills on the shirt. The shirt also probably didn’t match my pants, but I don’t stress about that. People my age are expected to wear mismatched clothing. It’s practically required. And a shirt already gooped removes the pressure of trying to eat lunch carefully today.

My wife has other theories about what it means. Something about aging and neglecting the hamper and hanging up dirty clothes. I forget the details. But hey, people don’t expect us to remember things anymore, either.

Nor do they expect us to stay awake all day. I get to take naps without criticism, and I believe I shall do so now. It’s just another of those great benefits of aging.

— Cole will sign copies of his humor novels from 5 to 7 p.m. Monday at the Conneaut Public Library, and from 2 to 5 p.m. Saturday at Scribblers Coffee Shop, Geneva. Write him at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.

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