Geriatrics

Driving to work today, my frustration and rage were kindled by the slow-driving elderly men overpopulating the roads and highways. I turned to my typical pattern of cursing and fist raising at these crippled impotents, until I reflected on my thoughts and actions and reminded myself that I too will one day inherit the title of Senior Citizen. And as medicine and health science are constantly improving the quality of life for the old, perhaps I should stop viewing a full head of gray hair as a symbol of a feeble mind and stubborn attachment to long-forgotten ways. I was reminded of a New Year's Resolution posted in the Cleveland Scene, something about letting go of criticizing the elderly, that it's time the young realize they will not always be so.

Yet, pondering deeply on this idea, before I leaped into volunteer work at a nursing home, I concluded that, no, I do not agree I should have patience with the elderly and see myself in their tired old loafers. I get it, all fruit not consumed in its youth and glory will one day wither and wrinkle and dry. Yet, not all fresh fruit will become a prune. These feet-in-their-graves were little more than tired plums anyway, they were not better when they were young, and now they are fiber at best. But I, I am a pineapple, a mango, a gobi fruit, and when I am dessicated and shriveling, my flavor will not be lost but altered subtly, still tropical to the tongue and delivering a full palate of uniqueness and individuality. My flavor will age, surely, but it will not transmute into something bitter and foul that cannot drive faster than 10 below the speed limit.