I knew I was an old man living alone when I spent the entire time driving home from taiji planning what I was going to make for dinner for myself. Somewhere I remember hearing or reading that old people become more and more focused on their meals.
This was after I’d spent about 12 hours trying to remember the name of the movie “Thelma and Louise.” I could remember “Louise” and Susan Sarandon, but I was stuck on the first name. Didn’t want to Google for the answer, which is my usual solution for senior brain freeze. Why, you ask, or maybe not, was I trying to remember the name of that movie? The finale of season 2 of the Australian series Wanted on Netflix almost did a Thelma-and-Louise-type ending. The series had been so good that I kept saying to myself “Don’t do it. That’s too easy. Almost trite.” as they got closer and closer to ending it all. I won’t say how the season ended because I want you to enjoy the show as much as I did.
Stop here if thoughts of death and dying bother you.
My week began with a Facebook notice of the death of a man whom I hadn’t seen since he was a younger neighbor boy in the 1960s. His sister called him “Bob” in the post, but he was always “Bobby” to me. His father was “Bob.” I wondered if he hated “Bobby” as much as I dislike “Kenny.” That’s a real problem living in New Jersey where it’s always “Kenny.” You knew someone didn’t really know my father if he tried to sound chummy and called him “Jimmy.” Same with my brother who died this year.
That got me to thinking about my three younger siblings who have passed away before me. I’ve always thought of myself as “the oldest of seven children.” We’re definitely not children anymore, and there are only four of us left. I know I’ve started thinking about future events in terms of whether it’s likely I’ll still be around for them. When I start pondering who’s going to be the “last man standing,” I will have definitely become an old man. Not bitter. Just old. The two don’t necessarily go together.