If I was a car, I’d either be in a classic car show, gliding down some Main Street during a parade or heaped up with other cars in the junkyard.
If I was piece of furniture, I’d be on Antique Roadshow with the host describing my old Kennedy-era manufacturing.
I turned 60 a couple of weeks ago; I’ve gotten old.
60!
It’s hard to even think of that number. It seems like I was a teenager just a few years ago and now I’m a candidate for Senior Discounts at most restaurants. The other day I looked online at our library’s schedule. It opens at various times during the pandemic and I was checking to see if I could go there during a lunch break at work. There, posted first, were the special times for the elderly. They could come in daily from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. before the rest of the public was allowed in the library. The “elderly” referred to those 60 and older. I didn’t take advantage of the special times and instead went to the library during the “youngsters” times.
I know there are those who are saying “Age is just a number,” and “You’re only as old as you feel” and “60 is the new 59” or whatever they say. I get that. But I also get just how fast the years have gone by and that’s what stuns me.
Mentally, I haven’t changed. Those who knew me in high school would agree. I still have the maturity of a 13-year-old. I still laugh at farts and poop jokes. I still haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I best be gettin’ to work on that last one.
Physically, I’m shot. I tore the medial meniscus in my left knee the day after Christmas walking up steps. Youngsters tear their knees playing football or scaling mountains. I bummed mine up climbing six steps and using a handrail.
The past two weekends, a friend and I drove to a book warehouse in a town about 100 miles from here. The warehouse owner would get thousands of books delivered by truck and he’d sort them and dump them in large bins. Customers could dig through the bins in search for books and be charged by the weight of their finds.
The first weekend we went, I noticed as I got out of the car after making the two hour trip how my knee had locked up and I limped into the store. Then, as I stooped to dig through the bin of sports books, my back started hurting. Sheesh, I thought. How old am I? Then I realized.
Yesterday, we returned and I refused to let age get in the way. I dug through the sports bin again like a woman searching for sales and found nearly two dozen great books. I ignored my age and acted like I wanted to, not how my age dictated I should. And when I mowed the yard a few days ago, I did the entire yard in one push. Generally, I’d stop after cutting the front yard, rest a bit, mow the side, rest again, and then finish with the backyard. This time, I shook my fist at the age demon and just kept mowin’.
Here’s the APBA part of it all. As I grew, APBA grew with me. And the game is what grounds me. I began rolling the dice with the APBA replay basketball game in the winter of 1977 and worked my way through the football, then hockey and finally the baseball games. I’ve done this for 43 years now. So, while I am aging, I still play the game that I did as a teenager and it’s kept my youthful in one way.
It is odd being this old now. It’s weird saying it, although I still really don’t want to admit it. But then I go the baseball room in our home, pull out the 1947 season cards and time seems to stand still for a while and I revert back to days when I still had a future and my knee didn’t hurt.
I’m sure when I turn 70 and then, if I make it, turn 80, I’ll still be rolling games and whining about being old.
