I'm 60 today. Only as old as I feel?

 (932 words)

I turn 60 today. That’s what my driver’s license says so it must be true. The number is vintage enough to provoke friends into telling me I’m only as old as I feel. 

It’s a charming concept, but I’m old school. 

In fact, I’m so old school I’m willing to concede that any reputable school district starts revving up the bulldozers when ever a building hits 50.

But I was taught to use the word feel to describe touch, not emotion. It’s why whenever a doctor asks me how I feel, I always say, “The same as I always feel, Doc. I feel with my fingers.”

Then I hold my hands up in front of my face, palms out, and make squeezy motions like I’m honking a pair of giant invisible hooters.

So today I felt myself up — and down! I spent the morning grabbing, caressing and stroking myself from head to toe. Chest! Abs! Hips! Loins! The works.

I’m not ashamed to admit, I got into it.

I was feeling myself so thoroughly, so lovingly, I nearly missed lunch. But it was worth it because I now have an index that will convey my feelings.

Let’s start at the bottom.

My right foot feels about 50, but the left foot is like the paw of an 85-year-old carpenter who keeps dropping his hammer on his slippered tootsies. I had corrective foot surgery in April 2021 and it’s never healed. I blame the podiatrist.

How any guy who devotes his life to healthy toes can become all thumbs is just perplexing.

It doesn’t get much better as you ascend the shins. But in a reversal, it’s the right knee that’s defective.

After about two years of painful hobbling, I finally found temporary remedy. An orthopedic drained about what looked like 16 ounces of old beer from the knee.

I didn’t think to ask, but I wonder if it was, indeed, old beer that got lost on the way to the bladder. Drinking beer has often left me in a confused state. It stands to reason beer could confuse itself.

So the left knee is fine (50), but the right knee feels about 75. Combined, I’ve lost all my manly swagger. 

But I see an upside. I envision a day when I medal at some amateur games that involve dysfunctional walking and progressive Guinness guzzling at landmark Irish pubs.

I’m calling it the O’Limp-ic Games!

I know. A reasonable 60-year-old brain would never have labored  to get to that lame — lame! — punchline, but it seems like I have the mind of a 12 year old.

Thus, I don’t fear dementia. My fear is no one will be able to distinguish between typical symptoms and just me bein’ me.

My torso is a mixed bag. Pecs are respectable. I lift about 30 minutes a day so they’d better be. I’ll put them at 42.

But I’m nothing near having 6-pack abs. More like a party keg. I remember my father opining that any man who’s over 40 and doesn’t have a beer belly looks deformed. In deference to Dad, let’s say 48.

I take excessive and likely unwarranted pride in my ass. It feels nice and firm. Let’s give it a 24.

It’s peculiar, I know, to be so vain about something I never really get a good look at. I’m glad that God in His infinite wisdom didn’t put my behind in the front of me or else I’d spend too much mirror time admiring the shape.

The butt’s stood by me while I’ve sat on it.

It just dawned on me that I have only one good, intact limb. The feet and legs have staggered disabilities that detract from their utility. 

But I do have one good arm. It’s the righty and with it I and it can do it all. It signs books, brushes teeth, throws snowballs at jittery neighbors and takes the helm in every activity that requires some dexterity.

Yes, my right arm is my right hand, man. My functionality will take a real hit should the right arm/hand become like the lazy, good-for-nearly nothin’ lefty. 

But in a surprise, I’m giving the left hand a 2. Because 2 is an accurate reflection of the dexterity of the limb. It’s about the same as the left arm of a right-handed  2 year old. Sure, it can clear nasal debris from crusty nostril, but it won’t be waving the baton in front of any orchestras.

Now, I’m sure some of you are wondering, “Say, Chris, how’s about the ol’ pecker?”

Well, I’m a contrarian in these tell-all days. I choose not to reveal statistics, anecdotes or the number of times my partner has dumped a celebratory bucket of Gatoraid over my head. I do this because I’ve been with the same woman for 30 years and I’m aware that if I use this forum to share personal intimacies, my pecker will be feeling something the rest of my body never does.

Abandonment.

So for the pecker I file a WD for Withdrawal, fitting, too, because that was one of the precarious contraceptive methods we relied on prior to pharmaceutical safeguards.

Final tally: 388 years divided by 9 anatomical categories:

By that calculation I’m  43.1 years old. Sounds about right

There. I took an emotional issue and exposed it to cold hard reason.

I feel better.

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