Narration provided by Wondervox.

A lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.

By Mark McNease

Somewhere after our fiftieth spin around the sun our conversations begin to center less on our plans for the future, and more on our aches, pains, and possibly debilitating side effects of the medications many of us take. “What did you think of your weekend in the Poconos?” becomes, “Can this really cause crippling flatulence? My doctor said it’s rare.”

I never really wanted to know about sleep apnea, or bad cholesterol, or Restless Leg Syndrome. Yet here I am, finally enjoying the benefits of turning 65—Medicare card, Social Security, a near-complete indifference to the opinions of others—while I visit one specialist or another for all these ailments. Need a new CPAP machine? Have to get another sleep test! Wondering why my legs have ached for months? Here’s a prescription that probably won’t harm you in the short term. It’s also used for Parkinson’s, but I don’t have that, so no worries. It’s just twitchy, achy legs. And that cholesterol drug you’re only supposed to take for a few months? It’s been five years.

Narration provided by Wondervox.

By Mark McNease

Welcome back to the One Thing or Another column: A lighthearted look at life, aging, and the absurdities of it all.

“Age is just a number!” How many times have we heard this uttered with grating cheer, as if getting older was just a figment of someone else’s imagination. To this way of thinking, I’m not really real, I’m a number-defying sprite whose bones, sinews, and brain aren’t in their mid-60s, but somewhere preferable, perhaps 40. I have the luxury of pretending to be any age but the one I am. I’ve always cringed when I heard this, and I always will.

Age is not just a number. Age is empirical. Age is a measurement—how many times the Earth has traveled around the sun, with me on the bridge watching it all speed by. Age is the number of years my knees have carried my fluctuating weight, and how many mornings my eyes have opened to a new day. Age is the truth, and I’m not someone who wants to hide from it with platitudes, euphemisms, and make-believe.

By Mark McNease

It’s always One Thing or Another… a lighthearted look at aging, life, and the absurdities of it all.

“What day is it?”

It took me very little time after retiring from full-time work to ask this question, common among the post-job legions. After spending years with a life organized around a work schedule, one of the first things you may notice when the schedule is gone is that you’re uncertain if it’s Monday, Sunday, or some other day of the week you used to spend punching a time clock of one kind or another. For myself, I’d invested the previous five years staffing a deli counter at a grocery story, Thursday through Sunday. I’d called it my semi-retirement job, since I only had to put in thirty-two hours a week in exchange for benefits. The main reason was to provide health insurance for myself and my husband, and I’d promised myself that as soon as he was on Medicare, I was out of there. And I was!

It’s early days for me in this less restricted life. I can go to weekend festivals again. When we take our two-night getaways, they don’t have to be early in the week, when the hotel rates are cheaper but most of the restaurants are closed. I’d enjoyed that for a long time, but now we can book a room somewhere for whatever nights we want to be there, and it’s almost an overdose of freedom.

By Mark McNease

It’s always One Thing or Another… a lighthearted look at aging, life, and the absurdities of it all.

If you’re reading this you’re probably old enough to remember the 1978 hit, Reunited, by Peaches and Herb. That song came out a year after my high school graduation, and it seems an appropriate choice now that I’ve been invited to our 45th reunion. I can’t make it this year because we’re going on our annual vacation to Provincetown. Had I been able to attend, it would have been a first: I have not gone to any reunion since leaving Indiana three days after snatching my diploma and packing up my orange Gremlin to head to California. It was a stick shift with no spare tire, but I made it across the continent, and only went back every year to see my parents until they passed away. After that, Indiana became a place to store memories, some of them great, many of them deservedly faded.

I’m not someone who insists that age is a number—tell that to my bones. Age is real. Days pass, weeks pass, years pass, and every living thing ages in the march of time. I’ve also given instructions to euthanize me on the spot if I ever say that anyone is so-many-years young. I would be mortified as well as humiliated if, should I live that long, anyone calls me ninety years young. It’s patronizing and patently false.