Ah, These Golden Years

I'm beginning to think I've enough material on hand to do a Jeff Foxworthy type routine, 'You know you're getting old when...'.

So far my visits to various medical types has come in spurts.  I'm hoping it's my imagination that the spurts are coming more often.  For instance I just had a visit with a hypnotherapist. Today I spent a couple of hours with a plastic surgeon having a basel cell carcinoma removed. Tomorrow I have acupuncture.  Next Monday I have a follow up with the plastic surgeon then I have to make another appointment with the hypnotherapist.

 In between I'm supposed to maintain some sort of life.  At least the yard work is done.  Until the snow falls and the shovelling begins. Then the holidays are just around the corner.  I'm cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year.  Christmas decorating begins right after.  At least I keep moving which is the name of the game.  I do feel, though, that the gold in golden is lining other pockets more and more!

Actually I enjoyed today's visit.  The doctor is a very pleasant young man.  With just enough gray in his hair to give him credibility with me.  Had it not been there I'd have thought he was about eighteen.

He, his nurse and I chatted about a lot of things.  A little bit of politics but I quickly decided that probably wasn't the best topic in these heated times with someone digging into my face with a scalpel!  We hit common ground with our interest and taste in fine wines, how he loved martinis but they didn't love him and how much my capacity has dwindled.

Then the conversation turned to age related problems.  He had early on apologized for having to answer his cell and said how he wished he could get away from all the electronic gadgets that overwhelm his daily routine.  He said he understood why his mother was becoming more and more reclusive, enjoying her own space her own way.  I agreed and mentioned how the next step would be morphing into her.

Then the kicker.  "My Mom," he said, "was born in forty one."  As if that were the explanation for her more and more bazaar behavior.  "Ha!" sez I.  "So was I!" He actually looked at my chart.  "Well, she has six months on you!"

His nurse chimed in saying, "You don't look seventy.  You look pretty good!"

If I hadn't been worrying about a slip of that oh so steady hand I would have fallen on the floor laughing.  Talk about a back handed compliment!  I look pretty good.  I'll accept that.  After all, I had on absolutely no make up nor had I done anything with my hair other than wash it.  I was looking far from pretty good in my eyes.

I guess because he got all the tumor on his first try, I looked pretty good and we both thought a martini would hit the spot at that point, the day was as about as golden as they get these days.  I'll take it.