I honestly don’t believe it.
Despite being threatened with big knives and forced to buy a kilo of hashish in Morocco, coming literally within a fingernail of plummeting off a sheer cliff in Chaco canyon New Mexico, getting amoebic dysentery, typhus and dengue all within one month, getting whacked with multiple sclerosis, and having an ex-wife and evil mother-in-law who were hellbent on getting me to self-pinebox, I made it to 65.
The odds of any of us getting this far are rather astounding, when you consider all of the existential risks we take on a daily basis. Just driving across town presents at least several thousand opportunities to become a statistic. Compound that annually for decades, and add in all the other near misses we survive, and well…by golly a lot of us make it to the Golden Years (-ish), even if we’re dragging the carcass across the finish line.
Last year, Mrs. FarSide got herself all worked up over the condition of my heart—admittedly a shrivelled organ. After three ultrasounds, a CT scan and an MRI, turns out I have a 20% calcified stenosis in one cardiac artery, despite smoking since I was 5, drinking at least three cups of coffee every day, liberally partaking of the world’s finest alcoholic beverages, and frying my chicken fried steaks with homemade pork sausage gravy in tallow or lard.
If you don’t know, a calcified stenosis means it hasn’t changed in more than five years, and 20% ain’t nuttin’. The missus just took my blood pressure 30 minutes ago, and it’s 118/78. Practically a teenager.
I used to have a few friends that chided me and ridiculed my life choices. All but one are dead now. I attribute this to my visceral revulsion to anything labelled “medical” or “health”. I go out of my way to avoid lab coats and stethoscopes, and it seems to be working. Don’t even talk to me about gyms.
From what I see, the folks who live the longest enjoy a good cigar and laugh a lot. Groucho Marx died at 86, George Burns died at 100, and the remaining Pythons have a combined age of 337. Don’t take anything seriously and stop blockading Cuba, I say.
Oh wait, I live in Indonesia. I can buy Cubans here.
This is encouraging: the Wokians will have short, squalid lives because they are always angry, vegan and rabid anti-smokers.
One benefit to living in Indonesia is I have never received a single piece of mail from the AARP. That’s fine, too. I don’t intend on ever becoming “retired” or a “person,” and like Groucho I would never join an organization that would have me as a member.
If I don’t work, I don’t eat, and given my present girth it would seem that I have a prodigious and robust work ethic.
I don’t mind getting old. No one complains when I want to take a nap—and I love naps. No one forces me to endure social occasions beyond the minimal polite appearance—and I hate social functions. And no one feels slighted when I’m ornery and irascible—which is most of the time unless I’m well lubricated.
Oh sure, everything hurts these days, but the sore spots regularly move around, so it’s not concentrated in any one place. I’m blind in one eye and can’t see out the other. My ears are full of church bells for some strange reason—I blame Led Zeppelin and told Robert Plant as much. I injured my neck sleeping last night, but just oil me up like the Tin Man and I’m good to go.
Some readers may be asking how this curmudgeon made it to 65 with minimal “medical” intervention, and with most of his body parts intact.
I attribute it to eating most of my vegetables raw and my steaks medium rare, cooking with tallow or lard instead of seed oils, and routinely enjoying high-quality liquor and tobacco. Oh, and I laugh a lot and it helps that the world provides ample fodder for that habit. Oh, and whenever possible, I walk barefoot in the dirt, much to Mrs. FarSide’s chagrin.
To keep my mind sharp, I try to create something and learn something every day. In my experience, we all end up one of two ways—you lose either your body or your mind. I would rather the former than the latter.
For my 30th birthday, I went with a group of friends for dinner at a Greek restaurant down in the Houston ship channel, then we partied into the wee hours at the Vietnamese whorehouse next door. Maybe for 65, it’s time for a revival.
Si mundus vult dicipi, ergo dicipitatur.
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There’s some great films on mortality and medical loathing. Today’s recommendation is The Hospital (1971), written by the genius of institutional satire Paddy Chayefsky, with my life-long love Dianna Rigg and the great George C. Scott. For those who insist on double features, tag it with Harold and Maude (1971). This one will renew your love of life.
Joie de vivre on the Far Side:
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