I don’t know how it happened, but there seems to be a lot of old people in this world.
Now, it could be that I live in a community where Snowbirds come to retire. It may skew the results some. And it could be because I’m the youngest person in the building I live in.
But there just seems to be a lot of old people.
There never used to be, of course. Back a couple hundred years ago, people were lucky to live to be in their 50s. I would be considered old. But now that people are living well into their 80s and even beyond, it’s becoming something of an issue.
Case in point. Try driving around Fort Pierce or Vero Beach (where I live) in the winter time. Within seconds you will fall in behind an old person who thinks 30 is the new 45. I’m not talking age here, I’m talking speed limit.
You can always spot them, of course. They’re inevitably driving a gigantic old person’s car – a Caddy, a Lincoln – you know the type. They dole them out as a bonus on your Social Security. File for Social Security, get a Caddy free. And the car is so big that the little old men driving them are straining to see over the dashboard. As a result, they drive with their arms locked onto the wheel with their head tucked between, like they’re doing crunches as they drive.
These guys make me absolutely batty. I regularly use sign language. No, not the one fingered variety. Instead I hold up my hand once with four fingers, and once with five. I guess they just think I’m adding things up to nine, because they never go faster, even when I tailgate them a bit to spur on a heart attack. I guess I should just start ramming them from now on so I can take them out of my misery.
Not that I’m in a particular hurry, mind you. I live in Florida. I live on island time. I have no pressing engagements or schedules. However, I would like to make it to my destination before the next day.
They aren’t much better in the store, either. I stopped by Publix last night to get a celebatory dinner to toast my homelessness. And sure enough, it was “Senior Night” at the grocery store. Everyone moving along in slooooow motion. It reminded me of when I used to play records (remember them?) on 33 instead of 45.
I dodged them fairly well until I stopped to get a packaged salad. An old guy got there before me. He should have really been a professional linebacker because every time I went left, he did. I’d fade right and he was there again. His cart blocked half the salad options and he covered the rest of the open field. It was coverage the Seattle Seahawks would have killed for this past season.
I think the worst part of being around all these old people is you have nothing to talk about. I went to one of the building’s parties a couple months ago. Things were moving right along, until the conversation turned to pensions and health problems.
These weren’t isolated conversations between two people in a room full of partiers. Every little clicque was talking about their recent knee surgery, their hernia, the fact that they had been constipated for the last week, that the chicken last night didn’t agree with them and that their pensions were being cut and how could an almost bankrupt state like New York do such a thing. Because of the cuts, they had to forced to reduce their golf dates to six times a week from seven. So sad. Waaa!
And their obsession is my feet. You laugh. But during the day, when I’m still earning a living, I will go down to the mailboxes in the lobby in bare feet. When someone gets on the elevator, there is a hushed silence, then the old people point at my feet. “Forgot your shoes again?” they would ask, looking at the same time at the sign on the elevator that says “Shirts and shoes required.” Oh, if my life was so simple that all I had to worry about and fret over was my lack of shoes — I would KILL MYSELF!
God help me that I ever, ever think this is normal conversation. I’ve already instructed those around me to shoot me if this becomes the norm.
I simply refuse to be an old person. No fuddy duddy for me. No sir. I’m planning to be vibrant and active and in the middle of what’s going in the world until I drop dead from having too much fun.
Liver pills be damned, bring on the wine, women and song.
Oh, and just a touch of Maalox.
Dodging the zombies of North Hutchinson Island,
– Robb