Mind and Body

Growing old is a state of mind, or so they tell me. My mind thinks I can do the hundred in 9.8; my body just snickers and wants to know why I would even bother to wear running shoes. My mind says I can still party all night; my body yawns and nods off for a short nap. My mind says it’s just as sharp as it ever was; my body grumbles that the TV looks a wee tad blurry because my mind can’t remember where I put my eyeglasses.

My mind likes to flirt with young women; my body repositions my cap to hide the thinning hair up top and stands there holding its gut in and sighing to itself about Dirty Old Men. My mind still likes to reminisce about the bad-assed, tire-smoking ’69 GTO I owned way back when; my body prefers the sedate, comfortable ride of The Trusty Buick I drive now.

My mind fondly recalls, with some wistfulness, all the beer, Screwdrivers, Sol y Sombras, Harvey Wallbangers, etc. I slurped down in the good old days; my body settles for the cranberry juice the doctor has ordered me to drink and farts comfortably every time I take a pee.

My mind has always been a secret, wild-eyed dreamer and still is. My body has become a pragmatic realist, probably because it knows it can no longer haul me out of the deep doo-doo my mind sometimes got me into back when I was young, limber, and indestructible. It still hasn’t forgiven my mind for volunteering to go to Vietnam forty-three years ago.

But they're wrong; growing old is not a state of mind, it's a state of the body. Being old, however, is most definitely a state of mind. Ask my body.