Defying Death, Being 90, So Far..So Good

Talk about age discrimination. Just because I'm 90 years old no one will sell me any fucking life insurance. Maybe I should plead my case to the ACLU.

Living to 90 and beyond seems pretty commonplace these days. I am an avid obit reader. First thing in the morning, with credits to Christina Norman's father, I check on my iPad, to see if I'm listed in the obits.

After not seeing my name listed, I move on to just feeling like a 90 year old, which is to feel like shit. But to paraphrase Dean Martin one more time, I know that when I get out of bed in the morning that it is as bad as I'm going to feel all that day. There is only upside for the rest of the day.

Everybody and I mean everybody is always telling me that it's remarkable that I'm still alive at 90. I think that it is remarkable that neither of my ex-wives killed me. The fact that what comes into my head comes out of my mouth, unfiltered, was only one small reason that neither of them really liked me.

Actually, the first Princess actively disliked me. Gives me a laugh when I think about it. Poor broad had no sense of either humor or adventure. The Princess wanted a table top smooth life. She married the wrong guy and I married the wrong woman. But is there a 'right' woman for a 'take a chance' guy like me?

And everybody tells me that I don't look 90 which is pure bullshit. While I'm very satisfied with what I look like, the mirror tells me that I look 90 particularly without my dentures, which is every night, every morning and throughout the night. With a slightly enlarged prostate gland I'm in the head, pissing my brains out, at least twice a night. I pass a mirror on the way to the head but I don't look in the mirror.

Part of being 90 is putting your teeth in a glass of water every night. Then in the morning taking them out of the glass, drying them and loading them with stick-um. Toothless, I look 110. Dangerous to try to sleep with the falsies in your mouth; the fucking stick-um quits working and I could choke if one or another drifts into my throat while I'm sleeping.

My get out of bed, stay out of jail routine is simple and designed for a ninety year old: Take a whiz, wash my hands and face and retrieve my dentures out of the glass. If I make the mistake of looking in the mirror, I feel like puking.

After my morning whiz I do what I call my ‘incidental workouts'. (I do 'incidental workouts' all through the day.) Before I shove the dentures into my willing gums I do a calisthenic that I learned in the army ('You can check out anytime but you can never leave.'~ Hotel California). I touch my toes 10 times.

Actually my dream/fantasy is that my schlong can, one more time, get as stiff as the rest of me.

Most mornings while putting the stick-um on my dentures and then getting dressed I know that I am one old son of bitch and a borderline hypochondriac. Like clockwork I start perspiring, aka sweating, while doing the stick-um. I check my constant companion, my heart rate monitor to see if I'm having a heart attack. 'So far so good' as the guy said when he passed the 40th floor, on the way down, after jumping from the roof.

Getting old is a slam dunk. Being old ain't like spending a day at the beach. Old ain't for wimps or sissies. A few weeks ago while 'walking' I fell on my ass. No broken bones but a sore back and sore shoulders. Now I march to 'left, right, left, right' in my head so that I'm sure that I'm picking my feet up. Ah, army ways again.

After going through my three newspapers which I read for news and to stimulate my cognitive brain function, I then attack my iPad. God help the people in my address book.

Twice a week my fabulous young trainer, Jen Donat, comes by for 30 minutes. 30 minutes of 'work outs' are my financial and emotional limits. Jen stretches me, works on my range of motion and I do light weight lifting. Every so often I look in the mirror. It's always the same. I look 90 and look like shit.

A major source of irritation is my age induced dripping faucet but as my friend Dale Frey says, 'It's better than the alternative'. Forgetting to put my hearing aids in my ears, which I do often, erupts my major concern that I'm getting Alzheimer's. But again, so far so good as I pass the 20th floor on the way down.

Being a 90 year old borderline hypochondriac I feel strongly that, looking down at grass is better than looking up at the grass. At least that's my bet.