It’s May already?
What happened to January, February, March and April?
For that matter, what happened to 2016? Or 2015?
It’s a little scary, the way the years are flashing by.
I never used to think of my age very often. I knew I was getting older but I didn’t notice it too much. I mean, we are all aging at the same rate, right?
Lately I find myself thinking about my age. Or perhaps I should say others have me thinking about it.
Singer Johnny Mathis was at Clowes Hall last year. My wife is a huge fan and has been for a long time. The program was billed as a 60th anniversary. No, Johnny is not 60 years old. He has been performing for 60 years. He is actually 82 years old.
There we go, talking about age.
At any rate, I went online to order tickets for the show. To get two tickets I had to become a member of the ticket-selling organization. I had to sign-up and make a password. Naturally, they wanted to know my name, address, phone number and email address. What surprised me is that they also wanted to know my birth date.
Now, why does a theater need to know how old I am? Hey, I am paying big bucks to see 82-year-old Johnny Mathis. That should give you some idea of my age.
Do you think they want to know the ages of people attending Justin Bieber concerts?
On a side note, do you think Justin Bieber will still be performing when he is 82? I guess he could be. The Rolling Stones are still on stage.
Quite a few years ago, and that’s a phrase I find myself using more and more, there was a newspaper article about a woman who had gone into a record store to purchase an album by Perry Como (and that really dates the story.) She paid by check. The clerk took it and handed over the record. “Don’t you want to see my ID?” she asked.
“No need,” he said. “Checks never bounce from people who buy Perry Como records.”
Stores and restaurants now often provide a receipt which invites you to take an online satisfaction survey. Invariably, at some point in the process, they will ask your age, providing a choice of ranges. I am always in the most advanced range. I can only hope they appreciate the way I am stretching their demographics.
Doctors and nurses don’t help much. More and more, when I have a physical complaint, their diagnosis is accompanied with “well, as you get older ….”
I am trying to keep up. I am not on Facebook, but I do have an e-mail account. My friends and family are always forwarding lists of humorous lines that begin with “You know you are getting older when ….”
You actually look like the photo on your driver’s license.
The birthday candles cost more than the cake.
You now have a manageable supply of brain cells.
You look both ways before crossing a room.
Your pharmacist is one of your best friends.
Getting lucky means finding your car in the parking lot.
Caution is the only thing you care to exercise.
Your idea of a night out is sitting on the patio.
Your knees buckle but your belt won’t.
You’ve been there and done that, but you don’t remember what that was.
I guess we have to laugh as the years go by. We certainly can’t stop the passage of time. Take this good advice from comedian George Burns, who lived to be 100: “You can’t help getting older, but you don’t have to get old.”
