Chasing Methuselah

Methuselah was an old fart in the Bible . . . in fact, he was the oldest fart in the Bible . . . approximately 969 years.  Now, that is old!  I guess I shouldn’t complain about being a sprite 56 years old!  I only know one person even close to that age who lives in Michigan, and I doubt if he would even admit to being anywhere close to that age.

It seems that we are all chasing Methuselah . . . chasing that mythical age of never aging.  In the most recent issue of Health—a magazine I would never subscribe to if it weren’t for the free points to purchase it for nothing—there was a quiz about determining one’s real age to figure out one’s life span . . . and, basically how much longer one had before kicking the bucket.  There were fourteen questions about habits and tendencies that gave a number of points . . . you answered the questions, received a score that was divided by ten, and whether it was a plus or minus score you added it to your actual age.  Now, if it was a positive it added years to your actual age to let you know how many years your gluttonous living had shorten your life span.  If it was a negative number it subtracted years off of your age to tell you how many years you had added to your life span.  Pretty depressing stuff . . . I broke even . . . in fact, I probably cost myself ten minutes of life taking the stupid quiz.

The first question dealt with the body mass index . . . basically wanting to know how much of a person’s body was made up of fat.  First of all, I doubt if the majority of the human race even knows what their body mass index number is . . . I had to look mine up from my recent health screening . . . and, it was not pretty.  Second, I doubt if most people are going to be honest about their body mass index number . . . as humans we have a tendency to lie . . . we knock it down to a smaller number.  I really scored poorly in this area . . . added about ten years to my age.  Suddenly I was sixty-five and had the urge to retire.

The second question had to do with drinking habits . . . yep, I drink.  That should have been good enough, but no . . . they wanted to know the frequency . . . how many drinks a day.  That added a couple of years to my age . . . now I was thinking about moving into assisted living . . . as long as they let me bring a few six-packs of Montana microbrews.

The third question had to deal with how people handled stress . . . did folks have people they could share their stress with.  Heck!  I’m an introvert . . . add another couple of years to the death toll.  At this point I felt the urge to knock at the door of the local nursing home.  The quiz was stacking up the points of my longevity quicker than I could add them up.  I wasn’t sure at this point I wanted to continue the quiz . . . better to admit defeat and live under the illusion of ignorance about the longevity of my life.

Question four dealt with the amount of red meat that people eat . . . how often was the main emphasis.  Thanks to my wife . . . who seems to want to make me healthy with lots of chicken and salmon . . . who only allows me red meat about two times a week . . . I was able to keep the damage down.  I was slowly climbing out of the pit . . . there was hope as I ate my steak.

Education level was the fifth question.  Apparently the higher one climbs up the educational ladder the longer his or her life will be.  Shoot!  With this one I knocked off five years to the death notice I was working on . . . I wanted to cheat as I had a couple of graduate degrees, but the quiz wouldn’t let me. 

Question six dealt with support in times of crisis . . . again, I am an introvert.  What the heck is support.  Luckily I could answer that yes, despite my protests, there would be a small group of people who would come to my aid.  Of course I would curse them, but being a nice guy I would accept whatever they offered . . . and, I would secretly wish that they hit the road and leave me alone. I scored a big zero in this category . . . nothing gained, nothing lost.

Community involvement was the basis of question seven.  I am not as involved in the community as I should be, but I do the best that I can.  The minor involvement I put into the community actually knocked another year off of the death sentence . . . or at least the prelude to death.

The next question killed me . . . knocked me on my butt.  It had to do with moderate to vigorous exercise . . . like in how often does one do moderate to vigorous exercise.  None of the choices in the quiz really reflect what I actually do . . . I am not of the exercise fanatics, but nor am I one of the great couch potatoes.  They suggested adding five years to my life . . . this really killed the momentum I had been building . . . as Bob Marley and Bob Dylan both elegantly sang, I was “knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door.”

Number nine dealt with smoking . . . I have never smoked.  Now this was a category I thought I could make up for lost ground.  Having never smoked I thought I would gain at least a decade . . . but, no!  For having never smoked I did not get to subtract any points at all.  What a bummer!  I could have smoked and only lost a few points . . . and, for all of my good behavior I get a great big zero!  Hand me a cigar!

Ten reflected a normal menu . . . what does one typically eat?  First of all, the choices they offered were of foods  I would not regularly eat . . . heavy on the chicken.  Unless chicken is deep fat fried with the skin on . . . well, I will have to choke it down.  The closest they came to my ideal meal was a burger and dessert . . . I will take the burger, but skip the dessert.  This one threw a couple of years to my death sentence . . . Ol’ Methuselah was well beyond my reach.  I think I had slipped on climbing out of the burial tomb. 

I had no problem with the next question as I do not drink coffee.  Of course, this did not add or subtract anything to the tally.  It was a moot point . . . I think it was the bottle water industry that lobbied hard to get that question added to the quiz.

Sleep was the next question . . . yes, I do sleep.  No, I do not sleep enough to make a major difference, but I did knock off a couple of years.  Which was good because the next question dealt with sex.  First of all, it is really none of anyone else’s business . . . second of all, a gentleman does not kiss and tell.  Needless to say, this did not add or subtract to the death toll.  Rumor has it that Methuselah had a whole bunch of concubines and that it really added up the years . . . I think it killed the ol’ fart.  It is hard enough to please one woman, how in the world did he please a harem full of women!  I guess, at the age of 969 years old, it finally killed him . . . it wore him out!

The final question dealt with the longevity of relatives . . . did any relatives live to a long life?  Well, I really do not know.  Both of my parents died around the age of seventy . . . but, outside of that, I really do not know.  Always being younger than most of my relatives I always figured them to be old . . . as in ancient.  Now, whether or not that was the truth . . . I do not know.  So, all I could answer was nope . . . nope was good for nothing.  Nada.

Tallying up the score from the quiz, divided it by ten, and then adding or subtracting it from my actual age . . . well, I came out as to being my actual age.  Imagine that!  I was pretty much the age I actually was . . . OLD!  Old, but alive!

I do not imagine that Methuselah has to worry about this individual catching up . . . I doubt if I live anywhere close to the age of 969 years of age.  Long ago I predicted that I would only live to the age of fifty-five . . . I am now a year beyond that.  I guess I am not a very good prognosticator when it comes to things such as predicting one’s life span.  Yet, at the same time, I must be pretty lucky . . . I have already beat my prediction by one year!  I am still alive and well . . . there is something positive about not seeing one’s name in the obituaries.

It seems fruitless to pursue Methuselah . . . ain’t ever going to catch him.  Yet, at the same time, I rejoice in beating my youthful prediction . . . of already being a year older than I thought I would ever be.  Life has been, for the most part . . . great.  I have witnessed a whole lot of blessings . . . I have related to a whole lot of people . . . and, I have been able to grow thorough it all.  I have been blessed . . .

The question now is . . . how much longer?  I do not know.  All I know is that I must reach out each and every day to count my blessings . . . there has never been a day that I could not rejoice in the graciousness and love of God.  There has not been a day that I have not been blessed.  I may not be the oldest fart . . . but, I am an old fart . . . just call me Methuselah, Jr.  

The Pain of Growing Old

I am growing older . . . can’t escape the fact.  In less than a month I hit the double nickel.  I will be well established in the later stages of middle age . . . bordering on the age of being (as my children tell me) old.  I always knew that I was going to get old, but what I was not ready for was all the aches and pains that come with it.  Growing old is painful thanks to something called arthritis and its accompanying cronies.  Entering my 55^th year I have begun to feel the aches and pains . . . and, well, they hurt!

I guess I should not complain as my aches and pains are minimal at this point.  The joints of my thumbs hurt . . . especially when I am attempting to snub someone.  It is an achy sort of pain that sort of throbs.  The wife tells me that it is arthritis.  Whatever it is . . . it throbs . . . it hurts . . . and, I miss snubbing folks.  The other pain is in my big toe and little toe on my right foot.  It is a weird sort of pain—what other sort of pain would I have—that feels as if those two toes are broken whenever I walk.  But, they are not.  It is just a pain . . . one that I have determined to think is gout.  Yeah, look that one up . . . all I know is that it hurts when I walk.

I do not enjoy pain.  I don’t think most people enjoy pain.  Most of us try to avoid pain any way that we can.  The problem is this: you cannot avoid the pains associated with growing older.  Or so I thought.  Thanks to the latest issue of AARP—The Magazine, I have learned that there are ways that people can fight arthritis . . . in fact, four specific ways.  Wanting to avoid pain, I read the article carefully.

The first suggestion to fight arthritis, according to the magazine, was to enjoy a cocktail.  Research showed that women who had more than three alcoholic drinks a week over a ten year period reduced their arthritis risk by fifty percent.  I’ll drink to that!  Heck, even it doesn’t work, who cares?  Just drink a little more until the pain goes away.  Sounds reasonable to me . . . so, if you see me with a beer in hand, don’t scold me . . . praise me.  Praise me for using a homeopathic remedy for combatting arthritis and its associated pain.

The second suggestion was to avoid soda . . . unless, of course you are using soda to mix your drinks for the first suggestion.  Again, according to research, sugary sodas contribute to weight gain and the progression of arthritis in the knees and other joints, especially in men who drink more than five sodas a week.  My suggestion is, if you are going to drink soda make sure you mix it with alcohol.  Check out suggestion one above and you will understand my thinking on this one.

 Suggestion three, pass on the prime rib.  Whoa!  That one is hitting below the belt, or is it above the belt?  I love my beef.  Beef is a red meat.  Red meat is high in purines.  Purine can increase the risk of inflammatory arthritis—like gout—by five times.  How can something that tastes so good, be so bad for a person?  My toes hurt because I had a Big Mac?  This one has me concerned because it is suggesting that I cut back on my red meat consumption—which would make the wife happy as she keeps reminding me that red meat is bad for me . . . bad for my heart . . . and, apparently, for my toes.  I think I will keep limping along through life.

The last suggestion, number four, states that eating cherries can lower the risk of gout attacks.  In a study, people who ate 10 to 12 cherries over two days had a 35 percent lower risk of flare-ups.  I can handle this one.  I like cherries . . . especially when they are put in my cocktails.  I could handle this one if it makes my toes quit hurting.

In fact, I have determined that I could probably do numbers one, two, and four all at the same time.  All I would have to do is to make a cocktail using a soda with a cherry in it . . . at least three times a week.  Ol’ Arthritis would be seen heading for the hills if I did this . . . I would be feeling no pain.  Shoot, I could handle that.

With this sort of advice, who say growing old has to be painful . . . or boring?  I could get used to this . . . no pain . . . past the cocktails, my gout is acting up!

Manly Getting Older

Maybe I should quit reading MSN.com.  It seems every time I read an article on that website I only create more worries for myself.  The last time it had to do with the heart, this time . . . getting older.  MSN.com had an article, Five Things Men Most Fear About Aging . . . I was surprised that they only came up with five!  Heck, I could write a book about the things men worry about when they get older.  But, this article caught my attention and I decided that I should respond.  Especially since I prescribe to the Alfred E. Neuman school of philosophy, “What? Me worry?”

Number one on the list was impotence.  Shoot!  Since I have never been that impotent to begin with . . . who cares?  I think we make to much of being impotent in our society today.  People are only as impotent as they think they are.  What?  Oh . . . the wife just informed me that it is I-M-P-O-T-E-N-T not, I-M-P-O-R-T-A-N-T . . . never mind.  It is no business of any one whether I feel impotent or important.

Feeling weak was the second worry.  I have been called a wimp my whole life and I equate wimpiness with weakness . . . so why would I start worrying about whether or not I have any strength . . . that I am getting weak.  Once a wimp, always a wimp . . . I’ll just be an elderly wimp.

Irrelevance.  Lots of men fear retirement and getting older because they fear becoming irrelevant.  I don’t worry about this too much thanks to the federal government who keeps messing around with Social Security and retirement.  Since I started paying into Social Security they have constantly raised the age to where I will probably be dead before I get to start drawing any money.  Since I will be working until the day that they plant me in the ground, I really don’t need to waste time about my relevance at work.  They will just prop me up in the corner of the room.  I also don’t worry about this too much because I am pretty irrelevant at work already . . . basically I am the token male.  When women take over the world will any men be relevant?

Driving . . . men worry about losing their driving privileges.  Now, this is one I might worry about.  I enjoy driving . . . especially by myself.  This is my time to meditate, groove to some tunes, and get lost in my thoughts.  I guess in a way it is a sense of freedom issue, but I see it as a more practical issue.  If I am going to die in a car I might as well do it myself than to leave it to someone else . . . selfish, maybe, but at least it is honest.  I can handle my poor driving, but others make me nervous.  At the same time, the article said that losing one’s ability to drive signaled the fear of having someone else take care of them.  Having someone else meet the basic needs.  Shoot!  Anyone who wants to take care of my needs only has to give me a call . . . I am ready, but will they be?  I have some pretty extensive needs!

The last one?  Losing one’s mind (or the spouse’s mind).  I don’t worry about that too much as you can’t lose that which you haven’t found.  People tell me I lost my mind a long, long time ago.  I am already terrible with names.  My wife tells me I forgot conversations we have had.  I am thankful for calendars because they help me remember what day, month, and year it is.  I already do not make decisions as I have plenty of people who have been giving a piece of their minds for years.  And, if I do lose my mind, well each day will be a new adventure.  People better hope I learn some new jokes because they are going to get tired of the jokes I have now.  Losing the wife’s mind?  Heck, she can just ask me where it is as she has been giving it to me since we started dating!

Impotence . . . weakness . . . relevance . . . driving . . . losing one’s mind . . . is this the best that they could come up with?  I thought that is what they called a “mid-life crisis”!  I have lost all of those and much, much more since stumbling out of my twenties.  As Doris Day once intoned, “Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.”  Worrying can kill you.  I think the best thing that I can do at this point, as I grow older, is to take one day at a time and make sure all my insurance policies are paid up.  I think I am going to be around for a while longer and I want to make the best of the time I have left.  What!  Me, worry?  Shoot, I am a man . . . I can handle anything!