The Middle Ages - One Wrinkle at A Time!

They say age is all in your mind. I have a news flash for this "they" person. They lied!

Just ask yourself how many of your belongings clocking in at more than half a century old still work as well as they used to. Hell, do they even work at all? You might have an old Underwood typewriter or black and white TV stashed in the basement, but do they get a workout. They are merely quaint antiques. Could you even get parts?

I was pondering the "age question" after attempting to return to the game of tennis in the past month. A friend, who is more than half a decade younger than I am, started taking tennis lessons, so I thought it might be a good idea to get back in the game so we could play. After spending a perfect day at the Rogers Cup Women's Tennis with her, I was inspired to go out and buy a new racket the very next day. (I did play for ten years in my mid-20s to mid-30s.)

Turns out the friend who inspired me to take up the racket again doesn't want to play me until she has a few more lessons. Yeah, she has a cute tennis coach. What can I say!? But I now had this hot new black and red racket and I was spoiling for a match.

So the first person I played was a 72-year-old guy who lives in my condo building. He's got a few years on me, but is a regular player at a local club.

On a recent Saturday morning I coerced good old Bill into wandering over to his club so I could try out my new Wilson racket. After getting the feel of it, I realized my serve had survived the decades and whacked the ball into the box easily. I was returning a good few balls, too. And my opponent was sweatily running around after my deft shots. I came home positively glowing, pleased I had given the old codger a run for his money.

Yesterday, I got a painful dose of reality. I played a 42-year-old woman who is in great shape. Drove north, out of the city, to an elegant club, beautiful surroundings, clay courts - what more could I ask? I should have asked for a 72-year-old opponent - that's what! After an hour workout with a younger partner, I was feeling pretty ragged. I could feel my left knee getting a bit cranky every time I tried to stop short and return one of her hits. Obviously my moving parts don't work as well as they did 30 years ago when the oil, grease and ball bearings were still working.

Now this knee glitch came as a shock. Last night and this morning came as a bigger shock. The knee still hurt! Even more so. It kind of grinds and clicks. Is this the sign of things to come? Will Marley's Ghost be visiting me in my slumbers tonight to show me visions of the future filled with gnarled limbs and saggy bits? And joints that clatter and clank like the proverbial chains of doom?

Shoot me now...please!

It probably hits me where it hurts the most (my ego!) because I have (til now!) been one of those lucky people who was always taken for a decade younger than they actually were. Apparently this wonderful characteristic has gone like a whiff of smoke up some chimney. (Not that I appreciated this trait at age 28 when I was still being asked for ID in drinking establishments, much to the glee of my friends.)

If the creaky tennis knee isn't bad enough, I went to a movie two Sundays ago. And without even being asked, I was given a Senior Citizens ticket! I offered a $20 bill expecting somewhere around eight bucks change - and received back more than $12. I was puzzled until I looked at the ticket and it said in VERY LARGE PRINT - Seniors Admission. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the good side, I had an extra two bucks for a coffee. On the bad side, I realized not that many people tell me I look ten years younger anymore. I am not 65. Let me repeat...NOT 65. I felt like I should have done what I had to do at 28 and haul out my ID but this time to prove I was not a Senior Citizen.

But I quietly shuffled off to my theatre seat and drank my coffee bought with the savings from the illicit senior's admission price. Two bucks for my side.

This morning I decided if was this bloody old, I had better talk to a financial advisor to find out if I would end up dining on cat food a la carte in five years. Then again, I have friends who have the most adorable pair of puddy-tats who eat better than I do now. The descriptions on their cat food cans make my mouth water! Lobster and yam puree, Lamb and leeks....yum. Nope, I definitely don't eat that well. So probably cat food is out of the question, too.

Never one to like anyone else meddling in my financial affairs, I always self-directed my savings and RRSPs and so on. But finding it harder and harder to land a paying gig these days (well, who the hell wants to hire Methuselah?), I thought maybe I should seek a second opinion.

Back in the day (which is an old person's way of saying a few years ago), when I was a business writer I used to interview all manner of advisors and financial gurus. I always stayed well clear of them for my own money though. I figured why pay them a fee for doing what I could do myself.

But this morning I broke tradition and I saw Steve the Financial Guy for that second opinion. I sat down and asked Steve: "So, how long do I have?" Normally the kind of question you ask your doctor. But I meant financially; when is "it" gonna run out? It being the money, the green, the moolah. What stands between me and 9-Lives on a bun?

Steve-o seems to think I should start taking CPP now. "NOW as in this minute?" I asked incredulously. "But I'm not 65."

His theory is that I have to determine, based on family health patterns and personal health history, how long I think I will live. Easier said than done. I have high blood pressure; I come from British stock whose arteries attract every kind of animal fat that can stick to them. So who knows?

He figures if I take it now, I will have a little extra every month to play with. True. That would help.

It's a lot to think about. The retirement money, the cranky knee, the getting older. But, hey, if I creak up to the theatre kiosk, maybe I'll keep getting those Senior's Admission tickets to the movies. Then I can probably put off taking my Canada Pension until I am 65 with the savings. Then again, the girl who sold me the senior's ticket was about 17 and I probably would have looked old to her if I had been 40! It always pays to have perspective.

Sometimes You've Just Gotta Laugh.