East Dallas Times

By Bruce Felps

I still don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It was a relief in so many ways, and yet, it was a stake in the heart of my younger self.

See, a couple of Sundays ago, while grocery shopping — which for me means buying the fixin’s for beanie-wienies, another jar of peanut butter, and oh, just to treat myself, maybe splurge on a Hamburger Helper du jour if I get a couple of annual subscriptions roll in — I broke down and bought a pair of those magnifying reading glasses over by the pharmacy. [SIGH]

Necessary evil

I’m not sure of the magnification power but think I could fry an anthill if I were to do such a thing. Fortunately, I wear them in the privacy of my own home and home-office — and I just have to look adorable with them perched on the end of my nose so I can replicate the effects of bifocals — but on the rare occasion when I whip them out while out with a friend for dinner or cocktails, and the bill arrives, it probably looks to them like my eyes are about the size of hubcaps on an 18-wheeler, you know, if 18-wheelers had hubcaps.

Anyway, circumstances forced the purchase. I tired of not being able to read the small print of, say, cooking instructions — hey, those Hamburger Helpers don’t just cook themselve — the channel lineup listed on my Uverse, um, channel lineup, monthly bills, and, worst of all, the comics in the newspaper. I gots to have me some lunchtime comics.

But, yes, I still read newspapers, which also tags me as fossil, right? 

I guess I could still read all that stuff, but it became a contortion of the ridiculous far from sublime. I had to find just the right lighting — either that or make it with a flashlight — hold the document at just the right angle, as opposed to obtuse, tilt my head, squint, and say three Hail Marys, and I’m not even Catholic.

How do I know that part of the rosary, and how do I know it’s part of the rosary? Odd. Still, it seemed to do the trick.

It’s just so much easier now.

Age, you old bastard

Looking back, I started feeling the creeping, sweeping hands of time tightening around my throat years ago. The first instance occurred when I filled in on the softball team of the husband of a friend of my second wife.

I led off an inning, like most times in my softball career, with a slap single to right field. To paraphrase Wee Willie Keeler … god I’m old — who, when asked about his sparkling batting prowess, said “I hit ‘em where they ain’t.” — I hit ‘em where they had their worst player.

I stopped at first base and waited for the big boy batting behind me to pop a long one. Instead, he grounded one through the infield and out to right-center. I took off with the “doink” of the metal bat, and, like in my younger days, had no intention of stopping at second.

Hey, I was accustomed to beating out infield singles on balls hit straight to the second baseman, so I had no doubts about my foot speed.

Only this time I was a few years past my ball-playing prime. I rounded second, took about a step and a half, and looked up to see the third baseman catching the relay throw. I was dead in the dirt.

I couldn’t turn back because of momentum and the likelihood of getting caught in a rundown, so I chugged ahead. I seem to recall, although this might be revisionist memory, the third baseman grinning at me, doing a little dance around the bag, going to the dugout for a beer, returning, waving to his girlfriend in the stands, and waiting to apply the tag.

No deal, kid. I slide in hard, cheats first, to his glove, knocked the ball loose, and … “safe!”

It was my first lesson on age and guile defeating youth and agility. Maybe next time, boy.

Senior moment? More like senior living

I’ve experienced this before but the mother of all senior moments came for a second visit recently.

I have a set few items I always take with me when leaving the house. One of them is my cell phone. I collected up my stuff in preparation of heading to the store to buy more Hamburger Helper or something when the phone rang.

I continued my departure checklist while conversing, headed for the door, and realized I didn’t have my phone among my stuff.

“I gotta call you back,” I said, “I can’t find my phone.”

About the time crashing realization buried me, my conversation mate — I don’t remember who it was, I’m old  — said, “Dumbass, you’re talking on it.” Must have been a good friend.

Mick and Keith were right. Hit it, boys, just that first line, mind you, the rest is a bonus. You’re welcome.

Bruce Felps owns and operates East Dallas Times. Thank god AARP hasn’t found him since he moved. That stuff really drove him nuts.