Over the last two days, an ever-expanding file of evidence points to one simple fact: I am getting old. My immaturity always kept me believing that I was also young. But now, just like my father, I must realize that I am still immature, but old.
The signs began to appear on Thursday night. I realized that the most exciting part of my day was one of two things. Either the new air-conditioner that had been installed, or the fact that it had a remote. I couldn’t decide which. That night, I watched the National Spelling Bee, I almost cried for the loser. I was then all primed and ready for Diane Sawyer’s hour-long special about the American Foster Care system and I cried three times, the first time only fifteen seconds in. Those poor kids. I had macaroni and Jello for dinner.
I didn’t take notice of these developments until about ten o’clock, when I realized I needed to stop drinking my orange juice, because I wasn’t to eat or drink anything until after my surgery on Friday. That is when it hit me. “There is something wrong with me,” I philosophized, “I am aging at an exponential rate.”
The next morning I was up at 4.45, just like every old person. It was the twoth of June, and I was going under the knife. So off I went to the hospital for my procedure, where I would be even more alarmed by my emerging persona. I have had anesthesia twice before, and both times I was told that I acted silly. This time however, senile may be the more appropriate description. And by no means do I mean to make fun of senility, as it is often a sad affair. It was certainly bittersweet in my case, as a nice, older black nurse by the name of Georgia questioned me as I came to.
Georgia had a sweet smile and old-people glasses. “Well hello Robert, is there anyone coming for you?” Slowly, I sighed an answer. “I wish she was. I wish she was here.” I began to drool.
“Do you have a wife?”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh so she’s your sweetheart?”
“Yes.” Reality slowly reminded me of the date. “Except she doesn’t like me and she’s not here.”
“Oh, I see.” Georgia was troubled.
“Do you like Ray Charles Georgia?” Georgia said nothing.
“I sure like Ray Charles.”
Georgia then giggled to herself, and wheeled me off to the bathroom where I couldn’t pee. She said I couldn’t leave until I showed her I could pee and my sweetheart showed up. In my mind this was a grave problem. On our second attempt in the restroom I realized it was because she was standing there, and I didn’t know why she kept turning on the faucet. Now I only needed a ride.
Around then, my friend Amy showed up, whom I had asked to cart me home weeks ago. She was on time, but Georgia gave her a stern look, which I believe was based upon our recent conversation. We drove home and I apologized for so many things that Amy had to say “Stop apologizing.” I got sick two blocks from my house. We got me out and I sprawled across the cool morning concrete. I lifted up my shirt and said “Amy look,” so that she could see all of the weird plugs that were still on me. When I finally took them off, they made a noise like sucking.
Since then, I have been sleeping, resting, taking narcotics, and eating softy jelloey things. I have read two books and watched several movies. They say I must wait at least three days before I have sex, and a whole week until I can go horseback riding. I have occasionally gotten up and stumbled about my small apartment, only to return, unsure of my original intentions. This morning, in a gesture toward God to accept my fate as an Old Person, I got out a list, and prayed by name for each of my future grandchildren, in advance.