Continuing adventures with *****
“Fer cryin’ out loud!” I exclaimed. *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA pool just told me she was 62 years old.
“I had you pegged in yer 40s,” I said.
“Well thank you,” she said.
The other day ***** was poolside as I was getting out. It seemed she wanted to shoot the breeze. I happened to notice her knees. Yep, wrinkles, age-spots, also crow’s feet around her eyes; she mentioned ‘em before. To me that’s 40s, not 62.
Driving home I did the math: amazingly in my head, not my iPhone calculator. My brother-from-Boston, who accompanies me photographing trains in Altoona, PA (we’re railfans), just turned 60 last year. He was born in 1957.
“That makes you 1955, right?” I would ask.
1955, the year Chevrolet turned things around. Before 1955 Chevrolets were turkeys. ’55 was first of the Tri-Chevys, 1955, ’56 and ’57. Probably the greatest Chevrolets ever made. All through high-school and college I lusted after a 1955 Chevy Two-Ten hardtop, four-on-the-floor, SmallBlock V8.
“Another useless fact,” I’d say. “In 1955 I was 11 years old. Still in south Jersey with my parents; we didn’t move to DE until I was 13 going on 14.
If yer 62, yer not far behind me. Also not far from retirement. I think I retired at 62, but not intentionally. I was getting so-called dizzy-spells, later deduced a medication side-effect. No more dizzy-spells after I stopped the medication.”
“So when ya gonna take her to lunch?” my hairdresser asked.
“Oh no,” I said. “That’s her move, not mine. I’d do it if she wants — I like talking to ***** — but I’m sure I’d quickly bore her to tears.
I’m too used to living on-my-own, and can easily entertain myself. I’m up to midnight every night, alone in my house, processing photos, “slinging words” (writing), solving ‘pyooter problems, etc. I never watch TV.”
Anyway, I have this habit of getting people upset. Just recently I tried to tell my aquacise coach I still miss my wife, and crashed in flames. I don’t want that to happen.
What I said yesterday is: “Yer where I was 20 years ago. Do this, do that, keep running, continue to eat right, and thereby remain young.”
If she’s 62, it becomes “10 years ago.”
Suddenly at age-49, POW; a totally unexpected stroke, caused by a heart-defect I didn’t know I had. That defect was repaired long-ago with open-heart surgery, chisels, buzz-saws, the whole kibosh.
And enough steel mesh to trigger the detectors in airport-security. Not actually, but I have a metal knee; I hafta tell the airport X-ray people.
“Total knee replacement, prostate removed, hernia repaired; this wasn’t supposed to happen.” I remember my doctors wondering why a guy who ran had a stroke.
I love jawing with *****, and hope I run across her when I show for aquacise.
But 62? HOLY MACKEREL!
“I had you pegged in yer 40s,” I said.
“Well thank you,” she said.
The other day ***** was poolside as I was getting out. It seemed she wanted to shoot the breeze. I happened to notice her knees. Yep, wrinkles, age-spots, also crow’s feet around her eyes; she mentioned ‘em before. To me that’s 40s, not 62.
Driving home I did the math: amazingly in my head, not my iPhone calculator. My brother-from-Boston, who accompanies me photographing trains in Altoona, PA (we’re railfans), just turned 60 last year. He was born in 1957.
“That makes you 1955, right?” I would ask.
1955, the year Chevrolet turned things around. Before 1955 Chevrolets were turkeys. ’55 was first of the Tri-Chevys, 1955, ’56 and ’57. Probably the greatest Chevrolets ever made. All through high-school and college I lusted after a 1955 Chevy Two-Ten hardtop, four-on-the-floor, SmallBlock V8.
 |
| Mitchell’s Two-Ten hardtop. (Four-on-the-floor; converted to a 283 V8 from the six.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.) |
If yer 62, yer not far behind me. Also not far from retirement. I think I retired at 62, but not intentionally. I was getting so-called dizzy-spells, later deduced a medication side-effect. No more dizzy-spells after I stopped the medication.”
“So when ya gonna take her to lunch?” my hairdresser asked.
“Oh no,” I said. “That’s her move, not mine. I’d do it if she wants — I like talking to ***** — but I’m sure I’d quickly bore her to tears.
I’m too used to living on-my-own, and can easily entertain myself. I’m up to midnight every night, alone in my house, processing photos, “slinging words” (writing), solving ‘pyooter problems, etc. I never watch TV.”
Anyway, I have this habit of getting people upset. Just recently I tried to tell my aquacise coach I still miss my wife, and crashed in flames. I don’t want that to happen.
What I said yesterday is: “Yer where I was 20 years ago. Do this, do that, keep running, continue to eat right, and thereby remain young.”
If she’s 62, it becomes “10 years ago.”
Suddenly at age-49, POW; a totally unexpected stroke, caused by a heart-defect I didn’t know I had. That defect was repaired long-ago with open-heart surgery, chisels, buzz-saws, the whole kibosh.
And enough steel mesh to trigger the detectors in airport-security. Not actually, but I have a metal knee; I hafta tell the airport X-ray people.
“Total knee replacement, prostate removed, hernia repaired; this wasn’t supposed to happen.” I remember my doctors wondering why a guy who ran had a stroke.
I love jawing with *****, and hope I run across her when I show for aquacise.
But 62? HOLY MACKEREL!
posted by BobbaLew at 10:51 AM
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