To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
You would not be surprised to learn the old man’s doctor was a young redhead. You can’t have too many young redheads in your life. That was just his philosophy.
The doctor would only agree to see him twice annually. Unless it was an emergency.
Define “emergency.”
She told him to put his clothes back on and gave him a form to fill out.
Are you having trouble with your vision? Your hearing? Your speech? My wife says I am losing my hearing and I need to clean up my language.
I say bullshit.
Am I yelling?
He liked to think the doctor thought he was charming. That’s all he hoped for anymore. Charming.
She said he was suffering from a mild case of benign aging and minimal geriatric decline.
In layman’s terms, he was getting old. Damn, that explains a lot.
What’s the cure?
Balloons and babies and puppies, those were his first thoughts.
But that sounded noisy.
So he went for a walk.
When in doubt, make a move.