It’s the Pitts: How Old is Old?

by Lee Pitts

Recently, my elderly wife and I were discussing when old age officially begins. 

I asked, “How old does a person have to be to be considered old?”

“Depends,” she answered.

“Is that your answer?” I asked. “A person isn’t considered old until they have to start wearing adult diapers?”

“I’ve always thought a man wasn’t old until he reached 72, because when I was born in 1951, the life expectancy for a man was 72 and for a woman it was 76,” I told my wife. “Let’s see, how old am I? Holy cow, I’m 73! When did that happen? I thought getting old would take a lot longer.”

My wife replied, “Old age is when you go from forgetting to pull up the zipper on your pants to forgetting to pull it down.”

Truer words were never spoken.

I’ve always been an avid reader of obituaries. They always made me feel better because I was younger than most folks in the obits, but now my classmates are dying like flies, so I’ve sworn off reading them. It’s just as well, because the cataracts in my eyes make everything blurry anyway. 

I’ve always been one to respect my elders but now that I am one – not so much. 

I can’t remember being given a senior citizen’s discount until yesterday, which caused me to be honest with myself and take an inventory. Needless to say, I’m a lot closer to the end than I am the beginning. 

I’ve abused my body for 73 years and worked too hard for far too long. Now I get winded brushing my teeth, and it takes me all day to get nothing done so I’m falling behind on my work. A column that used to take me three hours to write now takes me three days. 

It takes me longer to rest than it did to get tired in the first place. Around our house, the term “happy hour” refers to my three hour nap. 

It’s true what they say. Old age is like a fine old wine – we should be laid on our side and left alone to gather dust. 

In dog years, I’m dead. 

If I knew I was going to live this long, I’d have taken a lot better care of myself, but in my defense, the doctors thought I was a goner when I hit 40. Looking back now, I think perhaps I should have quit while I was ahead.

I’ll tell you how bad it is. You know those chairs advertised on television that run up and down the stairs? Well, we’re considering getting one. We’re also considering getting one of those reclining chairs, which when brought to their full upright position, propels you skyward like a catapult. SPLAT!

In all honesty, I’m just plumb wore out. If I were a tractor or a bulldozer, I’d have 15,000 hours on my clock and be scrapped. If I were an old bull, I’d be sent to the auction market, and if I were a house, I’d be considered a tear down. 

Alas, I am just a humble human three steps away from the back end of a hearse and one step away from the rest home, geezer camp, heaven’s waiting room or assisted care. All synonyms, by the way, for a cell block for old farts. I have the shelf life of black bananas.

I guess I’ve answered my own question. I AM OLDER THAN DIRT. I knew the dust on my furniture back when it was still a rock. 

They say the oldest thing on Earth is a 12,000-year-old tree. Sad to say, I think I planted that sucker.

Thanks to a stroke, I can’t drive, and my back goes out more often than I do. I go to way more funerals than I do weddings, and the only advantage to this is I don’t have to buy a gift for the deceased. I guess I could, but what good would it do?

You’ll really know you’re old when it finally dawns on you all those rusty relics you spent “collecting” at estate sales and farm auctions were just so your spouse could sell them at you’re own dispersal for half of what you paid.