After all, any man married to the same woman for twenty to thirty years or more is quite a novelty these days. There is a certain heroic element for hanging in there, even though it bucks current trends. Too often, marriage partners are viewed with the same cold eye as professional athletes: Kept around for a few seasons, they get dropped for younger, more suitable versions of the same. That's why I like the term "covenant" for marriage; "contract" sounds so, well, temporary and business-like.
You are aware that there are very few jokes about marital longevity, whereas libraries and comedy stages are full of cracks and quips about growing old. I had it just the other week, twice. Some old geezer, probably my age, asked me about my two grandchildren playing on the hills of Dinosaur Provincial Park. I made three corrections: "Sir," I said, "there are actually four of them, they are not my grand-kids, and the blonde is not my daughter – she's my wife."
Talk about dinosaurs...
And a couple of days ago, at my favourite pre-owned clothing store, the clerk (politely) asked me about discounts or coupons. I was taken aback at his question, knowing that it was Senior's Tuesday. I would have poked him with my walker, but I think I left it in another store. Or was it at the bus stop? I better find it soon, because I think I left my dentures in the basket.
I don't feel that old. Granted, I am slower physically than I was a ten-miles-a-day letter-carrier, twenty years ago. And I think I am slower emotionally, in that I don't get as excited about a variety of things as I once did when I was a lot younger. Maybe I am a little jaded.
Speaking of emotions, I still tend to lose my temper, but for some reason I always find it again.
One clear-cut mark of my aging process is that I love older music more and more. I was born in the 50s and raised in the 60s, and that era has become my music of preference. Ironically, I never became aware of it till the 70s, so it was already old then. I still remember my first Beach Boys album. By the time I got around to buying it, they had become the Beach Men.
Whether it is four-part gospel harmony, barbershop quartets, good old-fashioned doo-wop, or early rock and roll, I suggest to you that there is a certain classiness, quality, and wholesomeness that has been unmatched since that time. The words, for starters, are clear and meaningful, something I can't say for much of the music of recent history. I admit that is a strong opinion, and I also know music is very much a matter of taste; but when I hear what passes as music today – secular or religious – I seriously cringe in disgust and disappointment.
Just as an example, I am listening to a CD-version of the Oak Ridge Boys, circa 1960, as I write these words. Those Oak Ridge Boys are not the same Oak Ridge Boys of today. I am a quasi-fan of the ORB still, having seen today's version live, just before they fled to Country. They are very gifted, no doubt about it, but I still hanker after their older stuff as I "mature."
Another benchmark of aging gracefully – like healthy cheese and great wine – is habits. You know those sorts of habits I'm talking about: shopping, wardrobes, holidays, evenings out or in, etc. I feel settled for the most part when it comes to these things. I rarely feel the restless and consuming urge to try this new thing, or go to that new place – just for the rush, just for fun.
The real kicker here is that I am gaining a status that will match my looks: I am going to be a grandpa! My wife and I have discussed what we should be called with the excited parents-to-be. For myself, I ran through the slate of terms of affection for the old man who is the father of the young mother. I am working through "Papa," "Gramps," "Poppa," and of course, "Granddad."
In addition to a new moniker, I need to adjust to a new relationship, namely, being married to a grandmother. Has it really come to this? But after twenty-eight years, one has come to expect the unexpected. On the upside, maybe she knows where my teeth are.
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