SOCIAL SECURITY! 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. Seventy 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, Seventy
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. Seventy 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
suplimental prescription plan to help with that. But, when I signed up, I
didn't take any prescription drugs. Back in the good old days.
Seventy 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 rental 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 the property manager 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 some time?
Seventy 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 seventy. Better file a destination plan with Barb, though, in case I
can't find my way back or fall and hurt myself.
Seventy 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 seventy, 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 seventy is good. Does
not require much physical exertion. Seventy 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 store for
Barb. Milk and bread. Except that now 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, the seventies
can really suck!
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