Signs of the Times

GETTING OLD CAN, after a while, get really old. Here are 30 ways I’m reminded that I’m no longer a spring chicken.

Life insurance salespeople burst into laughter when I inquire about a policy.
My house is so warm I can cook without using the oven.
As I walk past the neighborhood funeral parlor, the undertaker’s eyes light up.
Decades ago, all my doctors were stern, serious men. Now, my primary care physician is a woman with a great sense of humor—who was born after I retired.
When I was young, conversations were about girls, beer, baseball and cars. Now, it’s Social Security, Medicare, long-term care and which of our friends died recently. 
When I call 911, the dispatchers recognize my voice.
I can’t remember the last time I got carded for the senior citizens’ discount.
When I fire up my hearing aids, the entire East Coast blacks out.
My 2004 Toyota Corolla has just 2,300 miles on it, but I’ve replaced the turn signal bulbs a dozen times.
I’m on a first name basis with every employee, from the parking lot attendants to the doctors, at Boston’s major hospitals. 
I have the early bird specials memorized for dozens of restaurants.
When I arise at 4 a.m., I feel guilty for oversleeping.
I know how to dial a rotary phone, read a roadmap and write a check. 
When I sink my teeth into a nice steak, they stay there.
My idea of an exciting evening is to put on mismatched socks, wear my cap at a jaunty angle and yell "bingo" when I don't have it.
None of my relatives has any idea which side of the family I belong to. 
I get tired taking a nap.
As I try to join a conversation, everyone looks at me and nods sympathetically.
After my physical, I ask my doctor, "Well, how do I stand?" She replies, "That's what I'm wondering."
All of the bathrooms are equipped with grab bars.
When I tell a joke, the crowd laughs well before the punchline.
I’ve had so many X-rays, MRIs and PET scans that I’m officially radioactive.
As I back the car down the driveway, the neighbors make the sign of the cross, and hustle their children and pets indoors.
I no longer laugh at the commercial where the woman yells, "I’ve fallen and I can’t get up."
When I try to jog, I get ticketed for loitering. 
On my tax return, I have three doctors and five nurses listed as dependents. 
I like my steak cooked just one way: burnt. 
My CPAP machine draws enough air to change weather patterns.     
When I bend over backwards to help someone, I can’t straighten up again.
I made a trip to Mount Ararat, and Methuselah called me "sir."

Michael Berard, his wife, dog and two cats live in Swansea, Massachusetts. He retired after a career as a machine tool worker.

The post Signs of the Times appeared first on HumbleDollar.