HOW TO BE OLD

A year ago this September, I got a card in the mail from the Government of Canada which told me something I already knew: I'm a senior.


At least now, it's official.


And if other monumental birthdays had come and gone without much fanfare or effect, my 65th was decidedly different.


I knew that to be the case as soon as I saw my shiny, plastic Geezer Card.

On the front, there was a picture of Parliament Hill at night (although the same scene in twilight might have been more appropriate). And on the back, I discovered not one but two spaces for some kind of written entry.

I knew one was for my signature but couldn't imagine what was supposed to go in the other.

But, reading the instructions, I was informed the second strip was for the phone number of someone I wanted called - in case of emergency.

And that's when I realized my life had turned a significant corner.

What next, I asked myself? Will I be required to file a flight plan every time I leave the house to take a walk? And if I fail to show up on schedule at the other end, will they automatically call 911?

Some wise soul once said, "Age is just a number." What they failed to say was that, by the time you realize that, you've put quite a few numbers on the odometer.

Actually, I could care less about how old I am. And that's not because my memory is going. I've always felt that way.

As far as I'm concerned, there are no significant mile markers on the highway of Life... just more and more billboards for Viagra and Pampers.

And getting old is easy. You don't need to take any courses or pass any exams. You only have to stick around, and it just happens to you.

No, it's being old that takes talent. And apparently, I'm pretty good at it.

Just a couple of months into receiving my old age pension, the government gave me a $25-a-month raise!

I only wish I knew what I'd done to deserve it - I mean, aside from the fact that's it's really my money in the first place.

Was it that I hadn't been arrested for senior streaking, or ranted and raved in public places, or bored everyone to tears with endless stories and worldly wisdom?

Or could it simply be that I've finally found the very career I've always been meant for? Maybe, being old is the one thing I'm really good at.

In any case, I'm not complaining.

I intend to go on collecting those cheques and cashing them and going wild with whatever's left over after I pay rent and utilities and buy Granola.

And it's not like they'll be paying me forever.

I mean, eventually, everybody has to retire.