I’m a grandfather. With two kids, four grandkids and fifteen years teaching in middle school, where women outnumber men 6 to 1, I know about pregnancy and how it changes diet and behavior. It’s a lot like getting old.

I stop walking in the store to catch my breath, people give me the “bless your heart” look, a combination of sympathy and irritation. ‘He can’t help going slow’ they think while also wishing I’d step to the side and get the hell out of the way. It’s just part of being old. I can see their hands twitch as they resist the urge to give me a friendly pat on the back, a gesture meant to hide straightening out my suspenders, or patting my wild hair back into place. I remind them of an uncle or grandfather who tells great stories when he comes to visit but leaves the bathroom smelling like the feed lot for hogs just out of town.

I have cravings and eat what I want because I’m old and I can. I take sliced apples and animal crackers to bed for my midnight snack, which I eat my eleven, then raid the refrigerator. This morning I had a big bowl of spaghetti casserole at 4:00, followed by toast and jelly and later an ice cream sandwich after half of a turkey sandwich. I was feeling too lazy to make biscuits and gravy, which I do frequently.

I say what I want, and people think it’s because I’m old (dotty, gaga, over the hill) and excuse it…sort of, as just getting old, but they also wonder where my nurse is to control me. I’m rude when I feel like it, a curmudgeon. I complain about the temperature in the room and adjust the thermostat as if I’m the only one in the room. I’m getting old so, it’s all about me and my wishes.

I’ll be honest, I don’t see an end to this behavior, no birth and return to normalcy, because after all, I’m not pregnant. I may subside into the quiet old man in the corner with the sweater around his shoulders, but I don’t think so. I’m not pregnant, I’m getting old and deep down inside, being a cranky old man is a hell of a lot of fun.

Blessings

Posts The Road