Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori
Frankforter) seems determined to make me feel old. It started a few weeks ago,
right after we got hitched.
I’m not sure what’s behind this
nefarious anti-youth campaign. Maybe she thinks old guys make better husbands.
Or that I’ll wind up in the emergency room less often if I admit my break
dancing days are behind me.
I don’t know. I’m sure she has
her reasons, but it’s driving me crazy anyway.
At first it was little things, like
reminding me to take my meds. I take pills for a few “conditions,” slightly
elevated blood pressure being one. I take a couple others, but I no longer
remember what they’re for. I have great faith in the medical profession,
however, and my doctor no doubt had a good reason for telling me to take them,
so I do.
I also take pills for the ongoing
pain in my left foot – the result of a botched surgery, which, now that I think
about it, kind of negates that “great faith in the medical profession” comment
I made earlier. The pain pills I don’t mind so much, because taken in slightly
higher-than-recommended dosages, they can be quite entertaining!
Anyway, nothing makes a guy feel
more geezer-ish than having to down a handful of medically-necessary pills
every morning.
Also, Mrs. Taylor (fLF) signed us
up for AARP memberships. As you may know, AARP stands for Ancient Aged Rinkled
People. (Don’t ask me why they spelled “wrinkled” with an R; the motivations of
old folks are inexplicable to a kid like me.)
The AARP has been sending me
offers to join up since about a week after I started shaving, if memory serves,
which it no longer does. But since I’ve never been old (at least when compared to
some of those redwood trees out in California) I just tossed ‘em.
Not Mrs. T (fLF). She wants those
AARP member discounts on motels and McDonald’s coffee and surgical stockings
and all the other paraphernalia geezers need to get through the day.
Along with the AARP membership
comes AARP Magazine, a publication devoted to reminding me my best years are
behind me. It does this every month by featuring a celebrity on its cover; not
an old celebrity, but a young one! And when I say “young,” I mean someone whose
popularity peaked around the same time I was getting my first driver’s license.
Sometimes the cover story is
about a rock musician, somebody best remembered for copious cocaine ingestion
and trashing hotel rooms in the ‘70s. The article usually explains how this
rebel rocker is still living a rich, full life, thanks to Maalox and orthopedic
shoes.
Other times it’s an actress
sharing her secrets for maintaining a youthful appearance. (I can’t help notice
repeated and expensive cosmetic surgeries are rarely mentioned, even though the
actress du jour often looks like her
facial epidermis has been stretched repeatedly over a large, helium birthday
balloon.)
But the cover that really, REALLY
bugged appeared on the September issue.
Cyndi Lauper.
You remember. Girls just want to
have fun, and all that? In 1983, I was madly in love with Cyndi Lauper. She was
exactly what I was looking for in a woman. Cute, funny, talented, with a good
job and a nice house in Malibu.
I figured it was only a matter of
time before we got together and had a wild affair. Oh, I knew she’d break my
heart in the end, but I figured it would be worth the ride.
But that never happened. And now,
here she is on the cover of AARP Magazine. To her credit, she’s still cute,
funny and talented. But she’s on that cover, man! And that means she’s old.
And if Cyndi – that wild,
vivacious young girl who stole my heart in ’83 – is old, that means that … I … am … old.
Sigh.
Thanks a lot, Cyndi Lauper! You
wound up breaking my heart, after all.
And I never even got to see the
house in Malibu.
(616) 730-1414
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