I went to a party a couple days ago. As is often the case, I tend to be one of the older ones who attends. I guess that happens over time. You stop going to the parties of friends who are older than you largely because they’re not having parties any more – they’re dead. So you’re faced with the choice of going to a lot of wakes or accepting invitations to parties where everyone is still alive.
Such was the case with this party. I have no problems hanging around people who are younger than I am. It’s refreshing to hear them talk about their careers, aspirations and dreams, knowing that they won’t all turn out the way they think they will. They rarely do, but in the innocence of youth, we do like to think we have it all worked out. It’s not until life kicks us in the teeth a time or two or three that we find out otherwise and start making the necessary adjustments.
As for me, I tend to be a bit quiet at these parties. Having worked at home 18 years before stepping back into the work-a-day world and being a pirate makes my conversations slightly different than those who are talking about getting pregnant someday or who are chasing after a little tail or alternately, a little moppet they created from catching said tail.
But I do love to drop into the stories that people tell. People are so fascinating and I can truly spend hours just listening in. Yes, some of it becomes fodder for my writings, as in the case here.
When I went to parties populated by old people, they would tend to talk an awful lot about their health issues. This was certainly the case in Florida, where I lived in a dormitory of old people. Every time a Thirsty Thursday came around, we would all gather in the lobby to bathe our livers in copious amounts of alcohol. After the initial pleasantries, talk would inevitably turn to the latest visits to doctors and in many cases, the hospital.
It was a good tutorial on all the things that could possibly go wrong with you when you’re an old fart. From bouts of gas and the shingles to strokes and cancer treatments, it was like attending a medical conference.
For someone who likes to think he’s invincible, this is not a good place to be. Combine invincibility with a wild imagination and by the end of the night, I was sure all sorts of things were wrong with me.
Well, they weren’t. Thankfully. But there I was at this party, listening to all these young people talk. And what where did the conversation go? To all their maladies. I was smack dab back at Thirsty Thursday but without the odd, often unappetizing appetizers and libations.
From what I can tell, it seems that all the parents of these 20 and early 30 something didn’t exactly pass along the best gene pool. Add to that the obsession we have over germs these days and I think we’ve created a perfect storm of sickly people.
The one particular conversation I had tuned into was about allergies and how researchers are finding that if you have grass allergies that they can easily morph into wheat allergies because, well, wheat is a type of grass. In this particular case, the allergy manifested itself in the woman’s esophagus and to make a long story very short, she was in the process of eliminating (yes, the pooey, gizzard emptying kind) and giving up all grains.
As I nursed my extremely hoppy wheat beer, I thought how lucky I was that my parents let me eat dirt, play in cesspools, forget to wash my hands after I used the bathroom now and then and generally live a pretty dirty life as a boy.
I’m pretty sure it’s what has made me immune from most common diseases. It certainly kicked up my tolerance in the areas of allergies. About the only thing I am allergic to is cut grass and they make over-the-counter drugs for that. Pop an allergy pill before I mow or weed whack and nothing comes of it.
But this younger generation, wow. They have all sorts of health problems and I live in a pretty health conscious, borderline obsessive part of the country. One moment these young folks are talking about climbing a mountain and then move onto the fact that their upper GI is inflamed and their doctor has them on a gluten free diet to prevent the need for surgery.
Surgery. All because of bread ingredients. I thank my lucky stars that I got to grow up in such an unclean, unhealthy environment. I was weaned on Wonder Bread, you know, the stuff you can bury in the ground and it would be just as good as the Twinkie next to when Armageddon strikes. Through serious neglect and intense processed food training, my body can take virtually anything you throw at it and perk it right through without a problem.
I can’t help but think that if our healthcare costs continue to spiral out of control, it won’t be my generation’s fault. It will be because of the 20 and 30 somethings, with their sensitive skin and tummies, their weak, whiney organs and their obsession about their health, which will never be as good as mine.
Sure, I’m lugging around an extra person along with me, compared to their skinny little frames, but to date, it’s been pretty problem free. I haven’t been under a doctor’s care since I was 18, back when everyone should be in their prime. It’s little wonder old people are having such a problem getting an appointment with their doc. It’s not because they won’t take Medicare, but because all the young in our world are already falling apart.
I guess time will tell who wins the horse race of longevity. But if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t put it on the people in the room that night. They are already fading fast and haven’t even made it to the backstretch.
In the Emerald City betting the farm on Invincible to win by a couple lengths,
– Robb