OMG, I'm a Septuagenarian! Okay...
here's the deal.
Fifteen months ago (all right, years...
it just seems like months!) I wrote an article about turning fifty-five.
I whined about how quickly a half century sped by, and how I didn't look, feel, or act that old.
Well, on December 31st of 2011, I earned the right to repeat that same argument.
I'm just a kid incarcerated in a 70-year-old coot's body! Not only that, my annual physical and six-month follow-up urine test and blood draw prove this fact.
All the numbers look great; cholesterol, triglycerides, PSA, blood pressure, and pulse rate.
When I got my yearly "finger wave," the doctor said I have the "prostate of a 16-year-old.
" When I breezed through the stress test, the doctor told me I have the "heart of a 16-year-old.
" My thinking is...
if these teenagers want their vital organs back, we can trade ages! Seriously, I don't believe I look, act, or feel 70.
Perhaps, it's because I'm still immature.
Obviously, there's a lot to be said about hanging on to being a cowboy when I grow up.
First off, I have the boots now.
Not the cheap flat-heel, round-toe, "dude" brogans my folks bought me when I was eight.
I was thinking Roy Rogers boots, with eagles on them.
My Mother was thinking "you'll ruin your arches with those 'rodeo' heels.
" Earlier that year, I had beaten her down over the "you'll shoot your eye out" admonition, and gotten my B-B gun.
However, I never realized a similar danger lurked in "authentic" cowboy boots.
Regardless, I now have the pointy-toe, rodeo-heel footwear I've coveted for 62 years, and am ready to assume the cowboy way of life.
My only challenges are finding cattle to herd, saloons to shoot up, and bad guys to run out of town.
And, I need a horse, too.
Or, as Willie Nelson and Lacy J.
Dalton sang, "Where has a slow-movin', once quick-draw outlaw got to go?" Okay, faced with these obstacles, life on the Chisholm Trail or drinking raw whiskey with Miss Kitty may not be a 70-year-old's ideal lifestyle.
So, what are alternative occupations? I could be a professional baseball player.
Back in high school and college days, I had a blazing fast ball and lots of junked-up breaking balls.
Of course, today I'd need an electric cart to get to the mound.
Also, built a hot rod in high school - maybe I could race stock cars.
Unfortunately, that requires faster-than-molasses reflexes, titanium nerves, and uncanny depth perception.
(Sorry, didn't mean to drive up into your trunk!).
Perhaps a rock star for the Senior Set? I do know four guitar chords, and am familiar with garish polyester outfits.
Or, at least, leisure suits.
Then again, my voice cracks when I sing hymns at church, and even on the "Star-Spangled Banner.
" At this stage in life, there doesn't appear to be abundant employment opportunities.
And, unfortunately, I could never be a Wal-Mart greeter - I have an aversion to orange vests.
Or a teacher, because I have an aversion to kids who are smarter than me.
So, Old Coot, looks like you'll spend your remaining 25 or so years doing what you've been doing for the last 45 - consulting for clients who are convinced that decades of wisdom and experience can help them succeed in business and survive to 70 so they, too, can become whatever they want to be.
And, if that should involve being a cowboy or cowgirl, I have slightly used boots for sale!
here's the deal.
Fifteen months ago (all right, years...
it just seems like months!) I wrote an article about turning fifty-five.
I whined about how quickly a half century sped by, and how I didn't look, feel, or act that old.
Well, on December 31st of 2011, I earned the right to repeat that same argument.
I'm just a kid incarcerated in a 70-year-old coot's body! Not only that, my annual physical and six-month follow-up urine test and blood draw prove this fact.
All the numbers look great; cholesterol, triglycerides, PSA, blood pressure, and pulse rate.
When I got my yearly "finger wave," the doctor said I have the "prostate of a 16-year-old.
" When I breezed through the stress test, the doctor told me I have the "heart of a 16-year-old.
" My thinking is...
if these teenagers want their vital organs back, we can trade ages! Seriously, I don't believe I look, act, or feel 70.
Perhaps, it's because I'm still immature.
Obviously, there's a lot to be said about hanging on to being a cowboy when I grow up.
First off, I have the boots now.
Not the cheap flat-heel, round-toe, "dude" brogans my folks bought me when I was eight.
I was thinking Roy Rogers boots, with eagles on them.
My Mother was thinking "you'll ruin your arches with those 'rodeo' heels.
" Earlier that year, I had beaten her down over the "you'll shoot your eye out" admonition, and gotten my B-B gun.
However, I never realized a similar danger lurked in "authentic" cowboy boots.
Regardless, I now have the pointy-toe, rodeo-heel footwear I've coveted for 62 years, and am ready to assume the cowboy way of life.
My only challenges are finding cattle to herd, saloons to shoot up, and bad guys to run out of town.
And, I need a horse, too.
Or, as Willie Nelson and Lacy J.
Dalton sang, "Where has a slow-movin', once quick-draw outlaw got to go?" Okay, faced with these obstacles, life on the Chisholm Trail or drinking raw whiskey with Miss Kitty may not be a 70-year-old's ideal lifestyle.
So, what are alternative occupations? I could be a professional baseball player.
Back in high school and college days, I had a blazing fast ball and lots of junked-up breaking balls.
Of course, today I'd need an electric cart to get to the mound.
Also, built a hot rod in high school - maybe I could race stock cars.
Unfortunately, that requires faster-than-molasses reflexes, titanium nerves, and uncanny depth perception.
(Sorry, didn't mean to drive up into your trunk!).
Perhaps a rock star for the Senior Set? I do know four guitar chords, and am familiar with garish polyester outfits.
Or, at least, leisure suits.
Then again, my voice cracks when I sing hymns at church, and even on the "Star-Spangled Banner.
" At this stage in life, there doesn't appear to be abundant employment opportunities.
And, unfortunately, I could never be a Wal-Mart greeter - I have an aversion to orange vests.
Or a teacher, because I have an aversion to kids who are smarter than me.
So, Old Coot, looks like you'll spend your remaining 25 or so years doing what you've been doing for the last 45 - consulting for clients who are convinced that decades of wisdom and experience can help them succeed in business and survive to 70 so they, too, can become whatever they want to be.
And, if that should involve being a cowboy or cowgirl, I have slightly used boots for sale!