Growing old

My hair is falling out, my ankles and feet ache, and I'd rather drink a beer and watch a sport than I would play one at this point. I'm getting old.

I think I'm feeling this more because the leaves are orange, yellow, and red right now. I remember when that meant playoffs for fall sports, basketball moving inside for the winter, the last softball tournament before hanging up the cleats and oiling the glove for winter. This year, it meant trying to get home from work in time to watch World Series games and avoid the bars and the bad national football games they play in the p.m. This year, it meant feeling groggy by the seventh inning of a game after two beers.

I don't think I'm going to like getting old, and I think I'm too young to feel that way. I also don't like the stupid iDisk thing on my computer that demands attention every 12 minutes. I want it to go away, but it won't delete ... but I digress.

I dreamed last night about deer hunting with my dad and uncles. It's been a few years since I've done that. I think about taking my few remaining vacation days and going this year, and I realize how long it's been since I've hiked the hills, put a stand up, or shot a gun. It hasn't been that long since I told stories about those things, how when I deer hunt I see nothing but squirrels and how when I squirrel hunt I invariably spook deer. It hasn't been that long since I remembered the feel of the campfire on a cold autumn night, the smell of the wood burning, the taste of the ash in the air.

I don't like to think I'm getting old, but when my first action in the morning is stretching to make my leg joints pop there's no denying it. I'm suspicious of the crotchety old fart in the mirror when I brush my teeth, but less so than teenagers I see with their pants sagging to the backs of their knees and the stickers still on those stupid flat bill caps. We had our fashion faux pas when we were young, but at least we had enough sense to wear pants over our underwear and take the tags of things. It wasn't hard to figure out. Still isn't.

I doubt getting old has any advantages, save the obvious, that it beats the alternative. My dad says that a lot, and I take it with a grain of salt. I mean, he's retired, so he definitely acts younger than I do these days. If I sound jealous, it's because shut up.

There are still things I want to do. I want to see a top division football match at Wembley. I want to visit Croatia, because I've heard nothing but good things about the people, the weather, the culture, the weather, the food and most importantly, the weather. I try to balance that sense of the things I want to do with the things I have to do, but the have to list always seems to win out, a sure sign of the passage into middle age.

This isn't really sports related, but I warned both of you followers at the beginning it wouldn't always be so. Just some kvetching, to get it out of my system and to put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard more accurately. See, I think that's what's making me old more than any other thing - I used to write almost every day, even when I wasn't necessarily getting paid for it. It kept me young, kept ideas churning, kept me in touch, involved. Now, I'm Al Bundy with phones instead of shoes, a (hopefully) better wardrobe, and a bigger TV.

Ah, hell, Peg, I need a beer.