The Joys of Old Age

Hey guess what?? I don't have skin cancer! Awesome!

Yesterday I had a dermatologist appointment to get the results back from my freckle biopsy, and to have a full body exam to make sure there were no malignant melanomas (or any other form of cancers) lurking in odd places like between my toes or on my scalp. My fabulous doctor happily informed me that I was cancer free and healthy as an ox, and I didn't have to come back for another year.

What's interesting is that my dermatologist - just like my gynecologist - is a 75+ year old man. I'm not entirely sure how I ended up with old men constantly pawing over every inch of my supple young body, but if it's anything like last weekend, I must've finished off that handle of Captains by myself and gotten freaky on the dance floor beforehand.

Awkward sex jokes aside, I love old people. They taste like beef jerky.

Hey guys! What's the plan for tonight?!

Old people are awesome because they've seen it all and done it all. They're at that special point in their lives where they could drop dead for no reason at any time, so they throw caution (and tact, and social cues) to the wind and go nuts. My grandfather used to bitch and complain about everything from how cold his steaming hot fried eggs were, to how nobody should trust the Japanese because they were still planning on bombing our harbors just you wait. And nobody even so much as bat an eyelash. Everyone would nod their heads and agree, because it was Papa, and he was old, and old people are allowed to make outrageous claims and generalize entire races in awkward, semi-racist statements.

Take my grandmother, for instance. At 83, she has the holy triumvirate of being old: she's in her 80s, she's a woman, and she's British. No one can resist the allure of the British accent, particularly on an old person. She can do no wrong in anyone's eyes. In fact, if she were to set fire to a carload of puppies and infants, people would still buy her tea and crumpets and ask about her days in the war. I've seen it happen.

Since she's old, she gets to make outrageous statements like, "I hate the Jews!" (when she's half-Jewish herself), and "Americans are pigs!" and "medicine doesn't actually help people!" And people are okay with that.

But if my father, a Baby Boomer in his early fifties, were to start ranting on about how cheap us Jews are, and how the French should seriously come over and whip our asses for us constantly berating them, then he'd probably get shot. Multiple times. No one under the age of 75 can make those kinds of statements anymore, and the age limit is being pushed higher and higher, with people sticking around for longer periods of time now.

Which brings me to my next point: I can't wait to get old.

I like to think I'd be a mix of Rose and Sophia - spry and slutty, even in my golden years

Okay, so this contradicts my stance on life (cryogenic freezing when I'm still young and attractive), but you can't deny the allure of old age. I can see myself now - sitting on a porch in Boca Raton, rooming with my closest friends, bitching about anything and everything, and then going on a date with Stu from Bingo. Perfection. The Golden Girls is the perfect existence because they're still hip, they're still funny, and most of all, they're still getting laid.

And who wouldn't want to sit by the beach, sipping (Long Island) Iced Teas, debating the pros and cons of dentures and bitching about how obnoxious today's youth is? I mean, minus the dentures, that's practically my life already. And seriously, how obnoxious are those teenagers? God! No respect, no tact, no class. In MY day, we knew our places.