Post eleven: Sixty-seven sure is grand!

     I just turned sixty seven the day I started this blog, so to celebrate that, I want to take out from my regular story to tell you just how good it is! I will get back to my story with post twelve. I hope you don't mind.
     Finally, full social security! And medicare and all that goes with it! I can go to my doctor as often as I want, and it don't cost a penny! Those arm-and-a-leg health insurance premiums are mostly all gone! The rental property is all paid off! Just tinker around with them a little when they need it, keep them rented, and they will help support us well into old age!
     Now, I can play golf any time I want, catfish all I want, and take long walks in the woods and mountains, to recharge, just for the fun of it!
     I can go to the Recreation Center and run and walk with my friends, any time of day I want to. For as long as I want to! They say, lots of exercise gives me a good chance to live well up into my 80's.
     And travel! Barb and I can travel all we want to, and can afford to. See the world! And I can write a lot!
     Of course, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Got to look at the big picture. Both sides of the coin. Good vs. bad. be realistic.
     About those visits to the doc. Sixty -seven is the year the doc says, "Maybe we should start doing those yearly physicals every six months. And, you know those questions you have stored up to ask the doc, those little things you want to ask the doc if he can fix? Well, sixty-seven is the year when you have to start writing them down. Not on a small scrap of paper, but on a full-blown legal pad. And, it might be best if Barb went along too, to help remember his answers. Sixty-seven is the year the doc's most common answer is, "Yeah, I can fix that, but you might want to consider just letting that problem slide, and live with that small inconvenience. I can fix it, or, you can keep on having sex." My answer is, "That's not a big problem, doc. I can live with it," as I scratch it off my list.
     Those free doctor visits. The paying through the nose starts at the Pharmacy. Maybe I should have opted for a little better supplimental prescription plan to help with that. But, when I signed up, I didn't take any prescription drugs. Back in the good old days.
     Sixty-seven is the year the daughter starts mentioning things like, "You know, Dad, they have really good ways to test your memory loss nowadays. And, if they catch it in time, they can slow it."
     The rent property has a few leaky roofs. Sure, I can just climb up and smear some sealer around. I can fix that. But Barb keeps harping on me with, "Remember how many times you have fallen off that ladder, in just the last year? Let Bud Reeder get someone to fix it." And that sagging floor. I can crawl under the house and fix that. But I keep rubbing all the belly buttons off my shirt to get under, then when I'm done, I can't turn around to get out. I know it's no big deal to replace a rotted bathroom floor, I've fixed a bunch of them. But why is it that now, when I finally get up off that floor, my knees and back are in such a shape that I get around like a 90 year old for a month.
     Sixty-seven is the year one realizes, "You know, my back sure does feel better when I just don't play golf." And fishing! My knees get all cramped up so in my small boat, so that I have to put my cell phone in double zip locked bags. There's at least an even chance that I will stumble around in the boat when I finally do get up and I will find myself under water.
     Long walks in the mountains are still a viable option at sixty-seven. Better file a destination plan with Barb, though, in case I can't find my way back or fall and hurt myself.
     Sixty-seven is the year you always greet your friends at the Recreation Center with, "Hey, Man!" or Hey, girl!" Why don't those names come to me anymore? And running. Works well for a day or two, until I pull some muscle somewhere. I can still walk fast, but if I walk too long, my back will be too sore to get out of bed tomorrow.
     Traveling the world is still a viable option at sixty-seven, unless I throw my back out carrying those heavy bags. And, if I can just fight back those panic attacks, when driving on the wrong side of the road, driving a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side, and just stop wishing I was home.
      Those nice naps after lunch are great, until they start stretching out to supper time.
      Writing, at sixty-seven, is good. Does not require much physical exertion. But, I now take five pills a day to counteract the side effects of a sixth one, and if they don't quite cover them all, my thought processes just get jumbled up. Sixty-seven is a good time to record my lifetime memories, if an old memory, once in my head, would just stay around long enough for me to find a pencil, considering I may have to interrupt my search for a quick trip to the bathroom when the two minute warning sounds.
     I love those trips to the grocery for Barb. Milk and bread. Except that I have to take a list, find the list when I get there, and finding my credit card on the way out complicates matters some.
     You know, everything considered, sixty-seven can really suck!