Sixty-three

Sometime this week (I’m not sure what day this is), I celebrate my 63rd birthday. I don’t know what life stage this puts me in. We can quickly rule out young and old. I am not sixty-three-years young.

I am also not old. Petroglyphs are old. Coprolites are old. Catfish can live to be one-hundred.

I am, though, no longer middle-aged. I haven’t been middle-aged for some time now, which is good because I never liked middle-age.

This leaves a short list of euphemisms such as “senior,” which I reject, and active-retired, which isn’t too bad. In the end, though, I prefer to just think of myself as sixty–three and not worry about a general category. I’m sixty-three, which is a lot older than I ever expected to live to and which seemed ancient when I was only middle-aged. I think of sixty-three as the age at which, no matter what the question, the answer is always, “I have to go to the bathroom.” Physically, it’s not a great age to be but it could be a lot worse. Wait for sixty-four.

For the last few weeks, Mary has been asking me what I want for my birthday. I try to be spontaneous and genuine in my answers.

-A tommy gun.

I get the stare.

Seriously. Every real man wants a tommy gun. I’m not talking about some girly assault weapon, probably a 9mm that folds up to fit in your pocket and which here in Arizona is more popular than rattlesnake anti-venom. I’m thinking more of one of those fine old firearms gangsters used to shoot at The Untouchables, .45 caliber fully automatic lettuce shredders you can fire in extended bursts and yell manly things like, “Eat lead, Ness!”

It’s clear I’m not getting a tommy gun, so I give it a few more days thought, and when Mary asks again, I say, “a Jeep.” Mary recently invented the word “jeeping” to describe the off-road fun lots of people have out here in the desert. I may not approve of such activities but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want one for myself. We could jeep around together. Also, with a second tow vehicle I could bring down a motorcycle, which I’ve been missing. Lots of guys find ways to bring down a motorcycle for the winter, but our configuration of truck with a canopy and a travel trailer won’t allow it.

I can see right away that I’m not getting a Jeep either.

Finally we settle on a pretty good present, above the arbitrary and capricious limit of one-hundred dollars that Mary originally set, but less than a year in Mexico studying Spanish, which was my third wish: we agreed on a three-day rental of a Gold Wing. Last year I rented a big Harley tourer. Since I can’t have my own bike here, I decided each year I could rent some other bike I never would buy but which I’d like to have a chance to take out once before age-related vertigo makes it impossible to ride and I have to switch to a trike.

This year, it’s going to be a Gold Wing, the Honda luxo-tourer which weighs in at over eight-hundred pounds and is so comfortable it’s reputed to be better than a massage therapist. I noticed that if you rent for two days they throw in the third day free, which should allow me to cross the country and return without ever getting off except to pee. (See above.) Mary said that sounded like a pretty good present, the extra day which becomes two, and I said I thought so, too. About $150.

So sometime next week, right around my birthday, we’re moving down to Tucson where we’re going to stay for a full month in a funky little RV park we found last year, and I’ll call around and see what color Gold Wing I can find to rent. I’m thinking red like the Harley so I can make a fair comparison.

I’ll need something fun to cheer me up, because this sixty-three thing is kind of depressing me. I’m determined to age gracefully, but I don’t have to like it.