EIGHTY AWAITS ME IF I'M LUCKY

As I age, less than five years from eighty and that's over-the-hill any way you cut it, I feel like I'm imploding. I imagine that I am the Wicked Witch of the West melting into a puddle after Dorothy has doused her in water. I am slowly withering on the vine. There is some bloom remaining, but it is fading fast. 

I look at the shrunken people my age and they have no color. Hunched over, they shuffle from place to place. From their hair to their skin, everything is gray. They have stepped across the threshold. Youth is a forgotten past if these elderly individuals haven't already lost their memories. These are not the golden years. Our first four decades could easily qualify as the golden years. We've been reduced to tin at best. 

Remember the Tin Man before Dorothy oiled him? That's my body when I rise in the morning. I'm jealous of the Cowardly Lion. At least he could give a false impression with his roar. Like the Scarecrow, I have shown that I have no heart. Will I continue in this state? Perhaps death will imperiously interrupt my existence. And there's the rub: Do you want to get old or do you want to die? Just like political candidates, we are left with the lesser of two evils. 

It's a Friday night. Bartender! A cold beer, please. To all the poor women who must come face-to-face with their wrinkled countenances in life's latter stages. Why the toast? Because a man, at least in his own deluded mind, never becomes old as long as he has money in his wallet. Money may not buy you happiness, but it can buy a brief satisfaction.

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