Mostly whimsical reflections on life
A friend proclaimed that I am officially a coot. While flattered, I believe such a high accolade is premature. I’m still practicing to become a coot.
Yes, I wear sandals with socks pretty much full-time. Yes, I wear the same Ducks shirt every weekend. Yes, I carry on conversations with the dog. Yes, I prefer chicken noodle soup to chicken cacciatore. What’s your point?
I haven’t gone mad and bought a Harley. I haven’t taken up golf. I don’t mow the lawn in tight shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt. I haven’t mixed plaid pants with a striped shirt. There is plenty of room for me to grow into coothood.
My body isn’t a temple any more, but it also isn’t an urgi-clinic. I work out, when I wake up in time. I have all my teeth. My hair is gray, but still on my head. My flab has dimples.
Aging dulls your fashion edge and your foodie appetites. You begin to think of shopping for clothes at Costco as you once did at Brooks Brothers. Combing your hair seems less important than taming irrepressible nose hairs. A good salad at home seems more appealing than a big meal with rich food at a fancy restaurant.
Changing priorities aren’t all bad. It seems sinful to spend a wad on a bad movie when you can wait a few months and watch it for free on cable television. A glass of good wine can replace a larger quantity of almost anything else. A breast of chicken satisfies just as much, with fewer digestive complications, than a New York sirloin.
I nap more often, but deny it. I wake up earlier, and go to bed sooner. I occasionally talk to myself, but I haven’t started responding yet. I still don underwear most days, unless I forget. Gabby Hayes is my hero. When I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go.
Maybe all that adds up to being a coot, or at least a dirty old man. I don’t know. Actually, I don’t care. Perhaps that is the truest sign coothood is in sight.