With Sixty You Get Eggroll
There is something weird about getting older - you don’t. For example, in my mind, I’m still twenty-something with my entire life in front of me. Of course, having my entire life in front of me is somewhat negated when I get out of bed in the morning and every bone creaks like Morse code signals warning of icebergs ahead.
Besides the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to (Shakespeare, bitches) I found another side effect (side effect?) of turning sixty. I tend to talk to myself. And I mean, a lot.
Yes, I do.
I’m not talking about screaming at the TV during sports, or political debates. I’ve always done that. No, I refer to the casual conversations I have as I go from room to room.
“Don’t forget to put the clothes in the dryer,” I say as I walk to the kitchen for a totally unrelated item.
Or I’ll sing it, for some reason, which doesn’t make any more sense, or more sane.
“Don’t forget to put the clothes in the dryer...dah…nah…nah!”
And, with all respect to Steve Coogan, sometimes I do it as Michael Caine. Not cockney Michael Caine, or tough guy Michael Caine, nor angry Michael Caine. More Dark Knight Michael Caine.
“Don’t forget…to put the clothes…in the dryer”
(You read that as Michael Caine, didn’t you?)
Besides the insanity of talking to myself, there are other signal the world tosses about to prove that I’m no longer that twenty-something that resides in my head.
At work the other day, I filled out a survey after completing a training course. While providing information about myself, I scrolled down to the age option. Clicked on the link, a drop-down box appeared with appropriate selections. The usual: 20-29, 30-39, 40-49, 50-59, and then 60.
What? No, 60-69? No 60+? Nope, just 60.
Does no one over sixty take this course? Perhaps they just don’t care for the opinions of anyone older than sixty?
“Hey, should have told you up front, if you’re sixty-one or older, don’t take the class because we don’t care about you or your opinions no matter how well you think your Michael Caine impersonation is.”
Sixty isn’t the new forty. In their eyes, sixty is the end of the line.
“You have reached the bottom of the drop-down box. Thanks for playing our game, you are free to leave.”
With that said, I’m in relatively good shape, I don’t think I’m going anywhere anytime soon. Besides, that twenty-something in my head is pretty sure he won’t sink when we hit those icebergs.
Okay, so now you have reached the end of the post and you’re thinking, ‘what the hell does this have to do with egg rolls?’
Well, nothing really.
The title popped into my head just before I started writing this blog. Its a take on the nineteen-sixty-eight Doris Day movie, ‘With Six You Get Eggroll’. It’s a pre-Brady Bunch (by one year) story about a widow with three sons who marries a widower with one daughter. After that, hilarity ensued.
Maybe that’s it. You turn sixty, hilarity ensued. But, hold the egg roll, too high in sodium; have to watch my blood pressure.