My car is roughly eight years old. It’s a bit of a piece of crap. It squeaks and grinds in several places and really doesn’t want to get up and go like it once did. It may be time to get rid of the Black Widow.
Funny how it all works. I think an eight year old car is ready for the junk pile but I still keep the 53 year old model I cart my soul around in going. That’s right folks, the oldometer rolls over to 53 next week.
Now, I don’t really make a big deal about any birthday, especially ones that don’t end in zero. So the coming oldometer click doesn’t really concern me none. Just another day for me.
I know that sounds a bit odd, coming from me, the one who loves to be the center of attention whenever he’s dressed as a pirate. But I’m still a pretty shy guy deep down. And I don’t really like to be the center of attention when I’m not in a pirate costume, not even on my birthday.
Part of the problem is that birthdays themselves are so arbitrary. We’re only a certain age because we happen to be on Earth and it rotates at a set speed that takes us around the sun every 365 days. Other planets take longer or less, greatly skewing what our age would be if we had lived on them instead. So I can’t too excited about the randomness of it.
But yet we earthlings seem to be obsessed with age and aging. We spend billions on cosmetic surgery so we don’t look as old as we really are. We try to convince ourselves that growing older is actually a good thing with witticisms such as “Life Begins at 40.” It does? What the hell were you doing for four decades before it was supposed to begin?
I think it’s a bunch of B.S. We’re the age we are. The only thing we can do is learn to age gracefully and keep our body from falling part entirely on us. I don’t really care if I have “laugh lines” these days or increasingly gray hair. Frankly, I’m just glad my hair turned gray instead of turned loose.
It’s like my car. The only difference is I can’t trade my 1958 in. I have to just let the oldometer roll over and hope it keeps chugging along.
As you all know, we never really feel the age we are. Our mind loves to lie to us. And we want to believe every lie it tells us about how young we still feel. I know my brain lies to me all the time. It tells me that I’m still just a young buck. That I can still exceed my limits. That I can pull an all-nighter and rebound in the morning. That I can defy gravity and spit in its face, day after day.
You’re damned right I’m going to believe it all. Unfortunately, my 53 year old mode of transportation doesn’t always agree. It doesn’t always have the get up and go that it once did. It likes to get a good night’s sleep. It has a few squeaks and creaks I can’t seem to get rid of. It is, after all, an antique, though I prefer vintage, which sounds a lot better. More like a fine old wine than a failing mode of transportation that at times, feels like it’s on its last legs.
Yet, while it’s still complaining to me about all this, I’ll see that my soul has jumped behind the wheel again and is gunning the engine. Like a 20-something NASCAR driver, he doesn’t care that my 1958 ride may have seen better days. He just stomps on the accelerator with a wide eyed sense of wonder, wanting to take it out for another spin.
Sometimes I find myself in the back seat (like they have those in stock cars, but go with me on this), telling him to slow down. Go easy on this old beast, I say. It works for a few moments, then he’ll kick it into gear and the engine starts to whine and ping.
And then it happens, I join in on the nonsense. I go right along with my soul that still wants to exceed its limits. I still want to push it to the edge and see what’s on the other side. I want to take chances, fill my head with nonsense, convince myself that whatever comes to mind really is a good idea and wake up in the morning, simultaneously thanking God for letting me live another day and wondering what the hell I was thinking.
So, when the oldometer rolls around this next Saturday (assuming the Rapture doesn’t come first), I will be out there rolling the dice. I will hand the keys to the soul and let it roar off into the distance, destination unknown. There’s still a lot of life in this old classic and I’m not about to park it and say my better days are behind me.
And I’ll remind myself that if we all had been dropped onto Mars instead of Earth, I’d only be 28 right now. Yeah, I like that. Maybe men really are from Mars after all. That’s why we think we’re such stud muffins, even when we’re so old that our male plumbing is only hanging in there because of duct tape and baling wire.
Out on the Treasure Coast, hiding all the candles in the house so we don’t start a fire,
– Robb