It’s 8 p.m. on a Wednesday and I’ve not had anything to eat since noon. Luckily, I have to drive within dangerous proximity of a bunch of fast-food joints on my way home. There are three burger joints, a sub shop, three pizza shops, and several gas stations where I can get hot dogs, stale snacks of all kinds, and a good shot at picking up something I’ll need penicillin for in a day or so. Oh, and a Dunkin’, a decent choice if there’s anything left in the display cases at this hour. All of these great choices are within a quarter-mile of one another.
The golden arches win by a landslide. Few things excite my taste buds like their “fish” sandwich with cheese swimming in what passes for tartar sauce, all presented on a soft, warm bun. With a pair of those sandwiches and an order of over-salted french fries, I’m good until lunch tomorrow.
Driving home in foggy near-darkness, I thoroughly enjoy my feast while steering with my knees most of the way down Route 24. I do use a greasy hand to negotiate the Orr’s Island bridge because, you know, safety first and all that.
I used to get a lot of static about my eating habits. In spite of assurances that my aversion to vegetables would lead me to an early grave, I have reached old age anyway. In that light, the scolding has diminished, but the rolled eyes and shaking head remain, clear evidence that hushed disapproval lurks in the silence. Still, I see no pleasure in eating a class of stuff that has flavor profiles running from none to vomit-inducing, mitigated only by potions and culinary acrobatics.
Why bother with the zero-calorie, vile-tasting dirt products at all? Why don’t we just have a nice serving of zesty Italian or blue cheese dressing to dip our Pepperidge Farm butter bread in?
Seriously, I don’t understand the fascination with produce departments. It’s not an accident that in any supermarket, one has to meander, twist and snake through the cabbage, turnips and Brussels sprouts to get to the real food. Also, notice where you get your shopping cart. Yep, right in front of the gluten-free, protein-free dirt products department. I don’t fall for that.
The power of suggestion works best on me in the checkout aisle. There’s only so long I can stand in line staring at a box of king-size PayDay bars. While the shopping list items go home in the bed of my truck, the PayDay bar goes with me in the cab and hasn’t a prayer of making it home.
So, while my eating habits are mostly for the entertainment of my taste buds and are not adherent to any trendy dietary regimen, there doesn’t seem to be any big downside. Sure, I suffer the same common geriatric complaints as most my age, but I’m still reasonably active and, frankly, fit enough to be of some small service to others from time to time. I will admit, though, as time marches on, some tasks get more difficult and I have to be more aware and accepting of a growing list of limitations.
Fortunately, I look my age, so I get fewer requests for assistance now. For example, these days nobody asks me to help them move. I can drive the truck and pass out the beers, but I’m not going to help you load your sofa bed or your chest freezer onto the truck. I can probably find you the help you need, though. And, for instance, if you need a clean-cut old guy to vouch for you at the U-Haul office, I can do that.
I say “clean-cut” because anything better than that would be stretching reality a bit. Recently, someone said to me, “You look very distinguished.” Surprised, I looked it up. Of 75 synonyms for “distinguished” in my thesaurus, none fits my self-image, so I’m pretty sure I was just having an off day. Still, having an off day is having a day, and I’m grateful for every one of them.
I don’t resent the inevitable ruination of this old, wrinkled vessel that contains what little remains of the strong and sure man I was. Neither did I invite old age to come upon me and have its way uncontested. I didn’t want it here, but, like an uninvited house guest, here it is and I’m trying to make the best of the situation. All I can do is be a gracious host and offer it a warm place in the sun and some soothing music while I tidy things up a bit. Call it planning for a long vacation voyage with a departure date TBD.
I already have the ticket.
