Bob's Corner
From our weekly issue dated July 22, 2009
The Geezer (left) with son, Mike (rear) and granddaughters Ella, Natalie and Kim
Yes, it’s been awhile since ol’ Bob wrote a new column, and that leads to this week’s topic: Geezerism. My dictionary defines “geezer” as “an old person, especially a man.” Another dictionary states that a geezer is “a senior citizen, especially a man who is eccentric or irritable.”
Well, yes and no. First, I have a basic dislike of the term, “senior citizen.” Somehow our society has chosen some arbitrary ages (62 or 65 usually) and applied them to mean something special. Does that mean that those who are younger than “senior citizen” age are “junior citizens?” I don’t think so.
How does one define “geezer”? One way is how you feel. Do I feel 65? No. (Not always; see below). In fact, I am often accused of being immature and acting like a 17-year-old. Geezers demand “senior citizen” discounts. Those I enjoy when offered. But it seems as though society is trying to reward people simply for being old. It’s OK with me, but what is “old”? Am I rambling? A sure sign of Geezerism.
A friend wrote that the cure for being a geezer is a new drug: Dagnabitol.
For sure, I experience the same symptoms as others: entering a room and not remembering why I’m there; recalling with clarity an incident from 30 years ago, but not remembering what I ate for breakfast; going to Shop Smart for groceries and wandering around trying to think of what I was supposed to buy.
When do I “feel my age”? Here’s an example: Went on a raft outing last week with our son, Mike; his daughter Kim, 13; and our visiting daughter, Vicki, and her children, Natalie, nearly 7, and Ella, who recently became 4. We took the “Cub Scout” version from Hog Creek to Galice, a Rogue River trip of approximately 7 miles. I didn’t want to go; a sure sign of Geezerism. I was deterred by the thought of getting wet and hot, possibly capsizing, just being uncomfortable. But I went and had a grand time. It was really fun.
However, upon awakening the next morning, I wondered who had beaten me during the night, as many muscles were sore. I wondered who had stuck a fork in my right shoulder blade. The left shoulder blade was fine, as it was numb. Geezerism protested all that paddling from the day before. I didn’t care; it really was fun. Might even take another trip one of these days on a more adventurous scale (more rapid rapids).
Now, as the late Walter Cronkite said, “And that’s the way it is.” So excuse me while I go take a slug of Dagnabitol.
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