Happy wife, happy life … or is it?

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Hey, happy 2026! How’s everybody doin’? Sorry I haven’t written lately; it’s because I just spent the last six months or so working hard each and every day to make my wife happy (in my mind!) Carrie, of course, would likely see it differently, if she had a platform on which to express her sentiments.

So here’s the thing. To me, making my wife happy means allowing her to decide what I should wear, where we should eat, what we should do, and so on. And I get it.. she wants me to look my best, to be healthy, and have fun! Yet, like most men, I don’t pay much attention to any of that. So a conversation between a man and his wife likely sounds something like this:

Husband: I’m ready to go out now.

Wife: You’re wearing THAT??? (choose from the following: shirt, pants, socks, shoes. That about covers it.)

Husband: Hey, I LOVE this (shirt, pants, socks, shoes). It’s so comfortable. But to make you happy, I’ll change.

Wife: I can’t believe you actually thought you could wear that outside of the house!

I’m sure you women out there can spot the problem immediately. I had to be shown the light.

First, It seems that in certain circumstances, it’s OK to wear a navy blue sweater with blue jeans, but not with black pants. Also, flannel apparently is never appropriate for anything, at any time. I never knew this until Carrie showed me what an absolute ASS I’ve been when it comes to dressing myself. So here I say, if I’ve offended anyone with my wardrobe choices over the years, I most sincerely apologize. In this case, ignorance IS my excuse.

Apparently, Carrie is not alone among women who desire their men to make decisions for things like where we should eat and what I should wear, but want to retain veto power. To my simple mind, we should be able to stop this charade by women simply telling their men what they want upfront. But no.. the game goes on.

Then, there’s the not small matter of where to dine on a Saturday night.

Wife: “What do you want to do for dinner?”

Husband: “I don’t care. Whatever you want is fine.”

Wife: Grrrrrr.

The husband says: “You really want me to tell you what I want to do for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“You really want me to tell you what I want to do for dinner.” (Spoken with the inflection of Billy Gambini in “My Cousin Vinny” when he says “I shot the clerk!”)

“Yes already. I’m getting hangry”

“Well then, when I lived in Texas, I loved eating chicken fried steak, with some tasty cream-ish gravy on top. Let’s have that.”

“No.”

Now, this is what we writers call an aside. (To my Long Island friends who might not know, chicken fried steak is basically a breaded salisbury steak, or a very thin piece of some kind of beef, that’s deep fried, or maybe pan fried, and served with fried french fries and a not-fried thick white gravy of unknown origin, likely very high in fat. I ate that quite a bit in the early ’80s because it was SO tasty, and because I hadn’t really yet understood the meaning of cardiology.)

Anyway, back to the conversation:

“Pick something else.”

“Well, how about Greek?”

“We had that last week.”

“Italian?”

“Red sauce gives me heartburn.”

“So, let’s recap: You asked me what I wanted and I told you. And then you vetoed it … three times. I’m out of ideas. What do you want?”

“FOR YOU TO JUST ONCE… ONCE! MAKE A FUCKING DECISION!”

“I thought I just did.”

“SIGH”

Or, there’s this:

Wife: (as we’re approaching a turn): “Are you going to turn here?”

Husband: “Well, I was going to go straight, but Yes, if that will make you happy.” (doing a two-lane sweep to avoid passing the intersection, while avoiding both traffic in the lanes to the left as well as oncoming cars).

Husband (as next intersection approaches): “Do you want me to turn here or go straight? I just want to make you happy.”

Wife: “SIGH!” (under breath: “Asshole!”)

And friends, that explodes the myth of “happy wife, happy life.” Another episode of life’s “Conundrums and Paradoxes,” brought to you by… “honey, what sponsor would you like me to choose!”

“Asshole.”

Th-Th-That’s Old, Folks!

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Hi everyone! Hope your summer’s off to a swell start! Sorry I haven’t written more often, but lately I’ve been overwhelmed by laziness. (This is where Carrie would say something like, “What are you talking about? That’s your natural state!”.. or something with a lot more colorful colloquialisms!)

Anyway, I’m writing today because it’s my 69th birthday. Not sure if it’s something to celebrate or to run from. (Don’t you love the people who say cute things like, “Yeah, it’s my birthday, but I stopped counting,” as if that statement somehow puts the brakes on the advance of time.)

A few posts back, I pondered the question of when does ‘getting old’ simply turn into ‘being old.’ A celebratory birthday call this morning from my much older cousin — we’ll call her Barbara — gave me the answer. I’ll likely have to stop calling her my much older cousin soon, because once you’re old, it’s doesn’t matter if you’re 80 or 92…. you’re both old! It’s not like when you’re 13 and you don’t want your 8-year-old little brother hanging around with you anymore. When you’re old, you’re timeless — at least until you hit 100, in which case, you’ve joined an even more exclusive club! Then, they count living by the month!! (Like a baby.. full circle.)

“Hey how old’s your grandmother?”

“She’s 101 and 7 months!”

“She’s ADORABLE!… Can she hear me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, CONGRATULATIONS ON …. BEING OLD, GRANDMA!”

(Fart)

Anyway, Barbara and I came to the conclusion that you become old when you turn from 69 to 70! So next year, I will have to change the name of this blog from “That’s Getting Old” to “That’s Old, Folks!” That, according to my much older cousin, is when the cute humor of “What was the name of that book?” turns into “What’s a book?”

It’s when the world around you speeds up so much. “I don’t understand why all these cars need to be flying past me as if I’m standing still,” I’ll say to Carrie in the car.

Carrie: “Schmuck! You’re in PARK!”

It’s when you stop saying, “I can carry those boxes up into the attic,” and instead say, “We need to get rid of all this crap!”

It’s when you look at the photo album from your wedding and don’t recognize half the people in it. It’s OK, though, because they’re more than likely dead.

It’s when the requests to go out with friends on a weekend night narrow to a select few, and you still wish for a bad cold so you don’t have to go.

And, it’s when those nagging little aches and pains turn into more serious diagnoses. Knock on wood, we haven’t seen any of those yet, but your self-assessments become more frequent, and every new mole or pain that’s not muscular guarantee a trip to yet another new specialist.

But today’s not the day to think about those things. (What? You just did, ya freak!) Today’s the day to be thankful for the phone calls and good wishes from family and friends, and enjoy another year of (relative) good health … and much continued laughter. (One thing I did notice.. as you get older, the birthday cake gets smaller. A sheetcake from your 5th birthday becomes a cupcake for your 75th. Why? NOW you’re worried about diabetes??)

But check back in a year and we’ll see how things are going at 70! For now, I have to run … to the pharmacy, to pick up some prep for my upcoming colonoscopy! Wish me luck!!

The Christmas rush

Posted on by thatsgettingold

T’is the night before Christmas … and Carrie and I are going to the mall.

It appears that she ordered something online, exchanged it, and has to go to the physical store to pick it up. (Or something else.. I usually get this wrong!) But you have to understand the absurdity of this… Aside from the fact it’s Christmas Eve, Carrie absolutely hates the mall. In fact, even if we go on a weekday in July, she’ll say, “Why are we going the weekend before Christmas? It’ll be BEDLAM!” She’s an Amazonian (in the shopping sense) through and through. Her favorite expression, when she hears that someone needs something, is “You’ll have it in an hour!”

I was watching the news last night, and the reporter was talking about the Christmas rush at local malls, and they cut to a shot at a mall that showed a few people walking around, but not what you would expect 24 hours before Christmas Eve. More like what you’d see on a weekday in July.

We all know the statistics — that more and more people are shopping online, and things like Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals kind of take the air out of holiday shopping in stores.

Well, call me a relic. I LOVE going to the mall. The music, the decorations, the lights… I dunno, it gives a me a Christmas rush — not bad for a Jewish guy, yet quite unlike the rush you get, say, from inhaling whippets! But I digress.

(As an aside, I am equally dismayed by the fact that most stores have aisles and aisles of Christmas wrapping paper, stocking stuffers, ornaments and all, and the Chanukah stuff is relegated to an end cap at the end of aisle 9. There are candles, menorahs and platters that say ‘Latkes’ on them. Oh, and big fuzzy Jewish stars that you don’t know if it’s a pillow or something to hang on the door. That’s it. And leave it to the supermarkets to fill their Chanukah end caps with matzo and gefilte fish.. which, as we all know, have NOTHING to do with Chanukah. They must think, “OK, it’s another Jewish holiday.. break out the fish balls!”)

In a way, I’m glad the malls aren’t as crowded as they used to be. I don’t have to wrestle with anyone to get the last XL half-zip sweater in blue that’s now on sale for 65% off! And, we can stroll more leisurely as we gaze at the storefront windows, and sip our coffees as we go.

Here’s to getting out and seeing people on the holidays. Merry Christmas (and Happy Chanukah) to all, and to all.. a good night!

Looking forward, looking back

Posted on by thatsgettingold

In my mind, I’ve had an illustrious career in journalism – despite the lack of any awards that would prove that statement. I’ve interviewed many people, from the moderately famous to complete unknowns. But this most recent interview was a first for me.

We did it over a Zoom call, and when I logged in to the meeting, I saw a boy in front of his camera. I said, “Hi.. is [the person I’m supposed to be interviewing] there?” He replied, “Yes, that’s me.”

He literally looked like his Mom took him out of eighth-grade homeroom to do the interview, which was all about the work experience of software developers. And yet, this kid was already on his way to his first BILLION! (And to think, I dropped comp sci at Maryland because it required logical thinking, and those of you who know me, well… ‘nuff said. )

Anyway, when I asked him about how he got to where he’s raised multiple millions of dollars for his company at the age of 21, he started his response with “Well, early in my career….”

Early in your career?? I’m thinking, what, you got your first job when you were 9?” (My first job, foreshadowingly enough, was delivering the Long Island Press on my bike before school. I was on my way to my first billion, but instead of riding the bullet train to the top, I’m taking the stairs.)

Then I asked him, what do you see when you look down the road? He started answering, and I of course got derailed by my own thought … he’s looking ahead, while I’m spending more and more time looking back!

Why, as we are getting older, do we spend more time on nostalgia and the good things in our past? Two easy answers. The first, obvious, answer is because I can remember everything about life in eighth-grade homeroom, but can’t remember who I’m supposed to call in an hour.

The second reason we look back is because we don’t want any part of what’s inescapably coming ahead.

The beauty of looking back is that we can cherry-pick what we want to remember. The successes we’ve had, the thrill of first friends, first kisses, first trophies. (Wait, they give trophies for first kisses? What town did YOU grow up in?)

The other beauty part is that we can filter out all the bad stuff, like the dropped fly ball in right field that cost the little league championship. (It was Steven Rosensweet’s fault!) The times you got dumped by girlfriends (NOT Rosensweet’s fault). The times you got suspended from work for off-color remarks (they were JOKES!). Like the time you got married.

I mean, really, who wants to think about those things?? (Just kidding, honey.. Love you!)

But looking back, I also realize how truly blessed I’ve been, with life experiences that brought me to foreign lands (Spain, Israel … Texas!), with the people I’ve met and friends I’ve made along this crazy road. And of course, by having met my partner for life Carrie and the girls we’ve raised to become the amazing, impressive and FUNNY women they are. And there is so much more to look forward to. (Some journalist.. Doesn’t even know you can’t end a sentence with a preposition! What a maroon!)

Anyway, Jerry Garcia almost got it right: “What a long, strange (and wonderful) trip it’s been!”

So, while I enjoy looking back, I’m going to keep looking ahead to the good things that life will bring.

Keep on truckin’ everyone!!

The Day of Atonement

Posted on by thatsgettingold

I remember as a kid asking my Dad, “What is Yom Kippur?”

He told me, “It’s the day when we ask for forgiveness for our sins.”

Being young, and mostly sin-free (though I’m sure my big brother would have a few in mind for me), I asked, “Why do we need a whole day for that?”

“You need to think about how you act, how you treat people, and to be a better person,” Dad said.

“So, what do we do?”

He explained to me that this was the most important day on the Jewish calendar, and that on this day, we fast. “That’s means we don’t eat for a whole day,” he explained to me.

That was a red flag. But as Vincent LaGuardia Gambini told the jury in “My Cousin Vinny” … “Wait, there’s more.”

“Well I would LOVE to hear this,” I imagined I would have said, had that movie been shot when I was six.

Dad said there’s no work on Yom Kippur. So, no homework or required reading? Up to this point, I’m in.

“Can we watch TV?”

“No,” he said. “The act of turning on the TV is considered work. So are turning on lights, lighting matches, or basically doing anything else.”

“Can I go out and play?”

“No,” he said. “That’s work.” Wait.. play is work? What am I, negotiating a contract with the Mets?? I just want to go outside and throw a ball around with my friends!!

As for turning on lights, in our house, you got to choose which light you wanted on. I said I wanted the light from the TV on. (Wrong answer.) It always was the bathroom. Looking back, that probably was the right call.

So, I thought, this should be one helluva day. No eating, watching TV, going out to play, talking on the phone.. (my wife Carrie answers the phone on Yom Kippur this way… “Hello, which Nazi is this calling me on a holiday?”)

Sensing that I wasn’t thrilled with the whole idea — what six-year-old would be? — he said, “But after the final shofar is blown, we get to have a big meal!” He had me at meal.

Ahh.. the meal. Mom would have been to Waldbaum’s, picking up the chubb (a gold whitefish.. no lie!), pickled herring in cream sauce, blintzes and sour cream, and more. And if we were lucky, she might open a can of Dole’s pineapple rings or purple plums in heavy syrup. That was it. One store, and fahrtik‘n shoin. Done.

Fast forward to 2024.

My mother would literally be rolling over in her grave if she knew what goes into the break-fast meal today.

First, everyone gets to have an order. An order?? My mother would put out a bowl of bananas and sour cream and say, “Here’s dinner.” And if you said you didn’t want it, she’d say, “Well, then, I guess you don’t want dinner.”

Today? My wife has to go to three bagel stores — the nephews and kids like the whole wheat everything bagels and light veggie tuna from Bagel Boss, while Carrie prefers the pumpernickel from Town Bagel, and I like the smooth whitefish salad and bialys from Long Island Bagel Cafe.. the one in North Bellmore, not Long Beach. Then, on to Pat’s Farms for tomatoes, cukes and onions, although the prices and quality aren’t what they used to be, before it turned itself from a farm stand into a mini-supermarket.

Don’t even get me started on the lox. Most of us prefer Nova, but there are a couple in every crowd who like the belly. (It’s saltier!) And, what would the break fast be without another curveball? My nephew likes lox spread — that’s small pieces of lox already mixed into the cream cheese, which, interestingly, meets the “no work” rule, because I’m pretty sure my Dad would say schmeering cheese on a bagel and cutting lox to put on top is work!

I will say, though, that it’s still quiet in the house. No TV, no music playing. That’s because when I go into the kids’ room to say goodnight, they’re under their blankets streaming TikTok videos, and listening with their earbuds. Also, we have enough lights on to guide the space station in for a landing.

Well, have a happy and healthy New Year everyone, an easy fast, and may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for another year. L’shana tovah!

Hold the phone!

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Muses are like taxis. They’re never around when you need one. But finally, after months of hailing, whistling and showing some leg, one actually stopped for me! (A muse, not a cab.)

My friends, it’s been a while. So what’s been going on? How’re the kids.. and grandkids?? Glad to hear it!! Me? I’ve spent the last months just kinda getting old. And reading.

I saw an article about determining the correct time to take a getting-old person’s car keys away. The answer was, when that person could unwittingly do harm to him/her self and other drivers.

Apparently, there’s also a time to take something else away from us older folks — our cellphones. To be clear, I write this a person well known for unresponsiveness and lack of small talk or even common decency.

Oh, don’t kid yourself. In the wrong hands, a mis-sent text or email can do a great deal of harm, from a social and emotional standpoint. That must be why I’m seeing more instances of texts being sent to someone’s phone number, and the reply coming from the spouse. (Anecdotal observation: it seems more wives are handling their husband’s phones than the other way around. You girls must think we’re IDIOTS!!)

A recent text exchange among friends supports this hypothesis:

“Wow.. I can’t believe Helen let you go to the concert with us. I guess she wanted a night off from babysitting you. LOL!”

“This IS Helen, and you’re a dick!”

See what I mean?

There’s so much to unpack here. First of all, it’s a fact that women understand how phone texts work much better than men do, just by the mere fact of being ON the phone for so many hours a day.

And guys, don’t you know how to lock your phones? Do you just leave it laying around, unlocked, so your wives can just pick it up and start replying to YOUR texts?? I would NEVER, under any circumstances, give my wife access to my phone call logs or text streams (unless, of course, she asked me for it.)

There should be a flag, or something — a light, perhaps — to let you know when a guy’s phone is in the hands of his wife. That could save a lot of embarrasing back-pedaling and denial.

[Guy texting with someone he believes to be a guy friend]

“Hey George.. had a great time with you guys last night. I especially enjoyed watching your wife finish off that 24-ounce porterhouse all by herself! Mooooo! LOL!! JKJKJK!”

“This is George’s wife, and you’re a dick.”

“Oh, hey… I, uh, meant I was Mooo-ved by how much you seemed to enjoy your meal! So glad we could spend time together.”

“You’re still a dick.”

“Uh, sorry. Anyway, that was for George.. why do you have his phone?”

“To make sure HE doesn’t act like a dick.”

Perhaps the worst thing is when a getting-old person is dealing with multiple conversations at once. Literally, there is no margin for error.

“Say, what’d you think about the game last night?”

“Me too! Cheese always make me fart!”

“What?”

“Sorry. Wrong convo. Yeah, it’s too bad they fell short of winning it all.”

“What???”

“Dammit! Wrong convo. Hahahaha! Beans also make me fart.”

Of course, an equal amount of harm can be done by simply not answering the texts. Forgive me, but I do not live with my phone Crazy-Glued to my hand. I’ve either left it someplace I can’t remember, or I have it but its charge is zero percent, or I’m actually busy doing something else. Frustrating for folks trying to reach me, I know. I envision them holding their phones close to their faces, ready to pounce when a message comes in. (In fact, I often get gifs of folks tapping their hands to show they’re waiting impatiently for a reply.)

But in defense of my response times, I say, ‘Hey, it’s still faster than carrier pigeons!’ And a lot less messy.

Pain is … such a pain!

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Here’s a fun question, and one that might provide some insight into the whole “getting old” thing: When did the simple act of driving a car start to hurt?

My beautiful wife Carrie and another couple recently traveled to Atlantic City for a few sun-filled (man, was it hot!) and fun-filled days — for those immature ones among us who think it’s actually fun to press the buttons for EVERY FLOOR in the hotel elevator! The ride to A.C. from my home here on Long Island is three hours. (No need to ask why someone who lives 10 minutes from the beach travels three hours to … go to the beach! That’s not the point.)

The point is, when we pulled into a rest stop about 2 hours into the trip for the obligatory bathroom break, my left foot was throbbing — and I don’t even use that one to drive! Also, I had a shooting pain in my right thigh, and — for the first time in my life — I’ll thank you not to ask about my ass. But if you must know, it went numb just as we hit the Verrazano Bridge. There’s just no place to shift!

A quick aside: Why is it that no matter how many times you try to make seat adjustments, you just can’t get perfectly comfortable in a car? The headrest pushes your head too far forward, the lumbar support is a myth, there’s no good place to rest your non-driving foot… Who are they making these seat positions for … ANTS?? (H/T to “Zoolander.” And 50 bonus points to the first reader who can find the original “Zoolander” reference in this blog series.)

And speaking of pain, when did Tommy Bahama take over the beach market? Umbrellas, swimwear, and those ubiquitous chairs. If they were any lower to the ground, I’d be sitting under the sand! So needless to say, when the urge to urinate sneaks up on you, which it does when you’re as getting old as many of us are, there’s not much time to get to a place of relief. (Reader poll No. 17: Ocean, or long walk to the comfort station??) And if you’re overcome in a Tommy Bahama low-rider beach chair, all you can do is try to come up with a clever answer to the wife’s question, “Did you go swimming? Why is your leg wet?”

Another aside: I recently asked Carrie which one of us she thinks spends more time in wet underwear. (Too soon?) We called it a tossup.

Anyway, here are some handy steps for extricating oneself from a low-rider Tommy Bahama beach chair.

  1. Skootch up to the edge of the seat.
  2. Fall into the sand
  3. Roll onto your stomach.
  4. If you’re familiar with yoga, assume the tabletop position. Now breathe, and relax.
  5. Try to secure your footing in the shifting sand.
  6. Press your “Life Alert” button for assistance. Because — all together now — “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”

So pain, it appears, is the thing that wears you out and starts you down that path to actually being old. Pain means medication. Medication means doctor visits. Doctor visits mean co-pays. And that means less cash for the truly important things in life: cannabis and alcohol. Which means, you’re old.

Carrie summed it up best recently when she declared, “I just don’t feel safe to move!”

I feel your pain, hon. Literally.

The sporting life

Posted on by thatsgettingold

I am an unabashed sports fan. Pros, college, even high school. I follow them all. It started when I was a kid, listening to Marty Glickman doing Giants games, and Marv Albert doing Knicks and Rangers play-by-play. “Kick save and a beauty by Giacomin!” DeBusschere from the corner… .YES! (DeBusschere’s grandson is an up-and-comer at Chaminade High School here on Long Island.) There have been colorful characters like Looie Carnesecca at St. John’s and Butch van Breda Kolff coaching Hofstra basketball. And of course, the players themselves. From Namath and Clyde to The Mick and Rod Gilbert, I was hooked on the personalities as much as the games.

So, my friends are taken aback when they ask me things like, “Hey did you catch The Masters? Koepka really blew it,” and I say, “No, I don’t watch golf.”

I love to play golf, but watching it as a sport on television ranks just below curling, which is only on once every four years! Golf ranks below cornhole.. and now even pickleball, which is the hottest sport in our age group! (“Hey, did you see where McEnroe and Agassi played pickleball for charity?” I did not.) Golf, in my mind, should be relegated to ESPN 8 (“The Ocho”), where it can follow spirited dodgeball action!

Anyway, I was able to take advantage of a recent summerlike day and got in a round of golf with a guy I’ve run outings with and a couple other guys I didn’t know. Three of us had something in common, and the other one was a kid. You do the math.

Among the topics of conversation were: “I’m glad to be playing. I recently had a cyst removed from an area between my navel and [lower area.. my edit].”

Wait.. hold on.. didn’t we JUST MEET?? This does NOT even come CLOSE to passing for light golf banter among strangers, with whom I’ll spend 2 1/2 hours and NEVER SEE AGAIN!

A couple of holes later, I was squatting to line up a putt (yeah, like THAT ever works! I meant the lining up of the shot, but it could also apply to the squatting). After a bit of looking like I was actually doing something beyond merely squatting, I stood up, walked to the left for a better angle, and squatted again behind my ball. “Now you’re just showing off,” the other not-a-kid said. “I’d do that, but my girlfriend tells me to ‘save your get-ups.'” He went on to explain, though he didn’t have to, that there’s a limit to the number of times he can lower himself and then get up. I’m assuming he meant getting up without assistance.

A few more holes..,”I can’t wait to get home so I can take 10 Advil!”

“No,” said the other, “the trick is to take them before you play!”

“I did,” said the first guy. “This is just how I move.”

I imagined the kid thinking all kinds of things about getting old, but it’s more likely he was thinking he’d go on ahead of us, since the “pace of play” rule clearly wasn’t being enforced.

Some spring in my step

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Here’s some good news. Pitchers and catchers report in FOUR DAYS! And we all know what that means!

Uhh… six more weeks of winter??

No, you moron! It’s the first sign of SPRING, that eternal season of renewal!

Not that this winter’s been so bad here on beautiful Long Island … only a couple days below freezing, and virtually no snow. You can almost feel the depression melting away!

I’m a lifelong, died-in-the-wool (what exactly does that even mean?) Mets fan, those lovable losers! But the new owner of the Mets, a hedge fund billionaire named Steve Cohen, has not been shy about spending to get the best players that literally only his money can by. We picked up ace pitchers Justin Verlander and Max Scherzer, the great shortstop Francisco Lindor, and re-signed fan faves Brandon Nimmo and Jeff McNeil. Next up? Pete Alonso, the home run-swatting ‘Polar Bear,’ who’s next in the “Strike it Rich” lineup card. Is there a World Series championship in our future? The anticipation is killing me!

Back in the day, my lifelong friends Victor, Greg and I made a point of going every year to Opening Day at the old Shea Stadium, where we’d clamor up to the top deck so as to be in the sun for as long as possible. (Opening Day at Shea, near Flushing Bay, could still be quite cold in April.) We’d start in the left field upper deck and make our way around to the right field side to stay warm, following the sun as it crossed the sky.

(One of things we’d always say when a batter hit a foul ball into the stands was, “I got it,” even if the ball was hit 27 sections over from us. Another gem was, “If you miss the first pitch, you miss the game.” Still true, in my book. And what would a ballgame be without a loud “Down in front,” screamed at the guy sitting in the seat right in front of us! Vic and I would laugh, and Greg would call us a couple of dorks. He was right.)

We’d try to drink a beer an inning, but back in those days, before batters had to adjust their helmets, gloves and cups (most definitely not for drinking out of!), quick 1-2-3 innings could move the game right along, backing up the beers. Somehow, though, we managed to catch up by the end (and invariably stagger back to the 7 train to Woodside, where we’d switch to the Long Island Rail Road to get home.)

And, spring also means that we’re coming up on another season of golf. How can something be pleasing and torture at the same time? (See: ‘Life with Carrie’.. JUST KIDDING, Hon!) I started swinging crooked sticks at little white orbs when I was 15, after my dad bought me a custom set of Lee Trevino Faultless clubs. Why he bought them for me, I don’t know. I can’t recall ever having any particular love for the game.

The top players that year, 1971, were of course Trevino, and Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. Nicklaus went on to win a record number of major tournaments, and Palmer went on to put lemonade and iced tea together, in the same bottle! The man was a genius.

I guess I caught the golfing bug from my Aunt Emily and Uncle Irv, who lived next door to us and loved the game. After I got my clubs, they would take me out to what was then Salisbury Park (later renamed for WWII hero and president Dwight David Eisenhower) for a lazy 9 holes, then stop at what was then Mr. Donut on the Turnpike for coffee (for them) and donuts (for me!) Quick aside how nothing stays the same: Mr. Donut became Dunkin’ Donuts, then just Dunkin’, and now it’s an Arby’s!

A second quick aside: Aunt Emily (my beloved mother’s sister, may they both rest in peace) had an amazing knack of finding the closest parking spot to any building she pulled up to. And to this day, whenever we pull into a crowded shopping center or supermarket, we chant, “Em-i-ly, Em-i-ly,” and as if the Red Sea parted, we always get a spot up close. It’s both incredible and kinda creepy. (It’s about this time in the story that my oldest daughter, Alexa, would chime in with “hashtag: adjectives.”)

Anyway, Uncle Irv wasn’t a great golfer, but he was better than my aunt and I, and was one of those guys who just had to critique literally every shot we took.

“You lifted your head on that one,” or “You didn’t follow through,” or “Not enough backswing,” and the classic, “What were you aiming at??” And then, as if on cue, he’d shank one into a sandtrap, muttering under his breath. I was always tempted to say, “You lifted your head on that one,” but he was much larger than me, and didn’t really have my sense of humor, so “Tough break” was all I got out.

But none of that mattered. It was just great to be with them, outside, for hours. Anyway, I think I shot about 115 — on a par-72 course. That adds up to a 43 handicap. Today, Carrie would say that’s not my only handicap! (She’s so funny!)

This spring will mark the 52nd year I’ve been playing. And, for the record, I still shoot about 115. And it still doesn’t matter. The game has evolved for me — no more donuts, lots more scotch — but it’s still about playing, outside, for hours, with people I love being around.

Bring on the spring!! As the Polar Bear himself says, “Let’s Fucking Go, Mets!”

Transitioning (not the Bruce Jenner way.. and not the ultimate way, either)

Posted on by thatsgettingold

For a few years now, we’ve taken this journey together towards old age. We’ve laughed, we’ve loved, we’ve shed some tears, and still the inexorable march goes on.

I was ruminating about getting old the other day and I was struck by a thought: How do you know when you’ve gone from “getting old” to simply “being old?”

Think about it: I remember being about 8 years old, and talking with some friends whose uncle was staying with them. “How old’s your uncle?” I remember asking one of the friends. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I think he’s in his 40’s.” “Wow,” I said. “He’s OLD!”

Now, of course, having gone from 8-year-old Long Island Press paperboy to a 66-year-old, grizzled veteran of the newspaper wars, when I see an obituary for someone in their late 80s, I think “Too bad. She wasn’t that old.”

Perspective is a funny thing, right?

So, I asked folks in my circle how they can recognize that they’ve gone from “getting old” to “being old.” And the platitudes began:

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

“Age is all in your mind.”

“You’re only as old as your birth certificate says you are.” (Wait … what??)

OK.. so, I’m only as old as I feel. Well, I’ve never been 90, so I don’t know what that feels like. But when I need an hourglass to time how long it takes me to pick something up from the floor, that’s not a young person’s problem. I do, however, take pride and admit to showing off just a bit when I show my family that I can still bend down and touch my … knees.

Age is in my mind? What mind? To quote the late, great actor Ned Glass from the motion picture “West Side Story”: Do I mind? I have no mind. I’m the village idiot!

As for the birth certificate, that’s long gone. Besides, in the context of this discussion, what does that even mean?

I think you’re officially old when physical pain or cognitive decline (bad words!) prevent you from doing things you always could. In our current age bracket, we can still do the things we’ve always done, and laugh about it taking longer to do them. Like coming up with what you ate earlier — in your mind, not from your stomach! UCH!!). Or, picking that thing up off the floor. Or, riding a cart for a round of golf, because a cart gets us back to the clubhouse much quicker if we have to take a leak during play. (Leaking during play? Is that ANOTHER sign of oldness? I guess that depends!) OH NO HE DI-IN’T!!

Carrie and I went out to dinner last week with my older brother and MUCH older cousin (what IS time, after all?). We compromised at 7 p.m. Alan, my brother, likes to eat at like 5 o’clock so he can be in bed by 8 because …. he’s retired?? And the next day was … Sunday?? [HUGE points and a shoutout for anyone who can name the earlier blog post in which this similar phrasing was used! Family members and their friends are ineligible to win and need not apply. Prize details are … nowhere.]

Anyway, as most getting older folks do on a Saturday night, we talked about this very topic. My MUCH older cousin — let’s call her Barbara — who will be celebrating a milestone birthday this year, pondered the question overnight, and messaged me this:

“Growing older is having the ability to fondly reminisce while we are still able to share precious time with loved ones. Growing old is when all we have left are those memories.” Then, she said we should make more memories before we are too old.

Nice, right? She’s a doll. And I’d say she’s wise beyond her years, but frankly, in terms of the history of mankind, not much has happened beyond her years.

She’s laughing, right?