The Over-40 ABC Book
The Toddler dropped a book in my lap. Although I realized a long time ago that the most important accessory to any father’s wardrobe is a cup, I was unprepared. I’m just glad I have good reflexes.
“Read it, Daddy,” she said in her sweet, two-year-old voice, which, by the time it reaches my brain, sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger saying “Hasta la vista, baby.” Like most sensible fathers, my daughter scares the hell out of me.
The book was a typical children’s alphabet book. A is for apple. B is for ball. C is for cat. D is for Division of Family Services. The usual.
As I sat there, reading about the wonders of Elephant, Frog, and Goat, I realized there are books like this for age ranges except adults. Where’s the 20-something ABC books of Antipathy, Beer, and Centerfolds? The 30-something ATM card, Business meetings, and Children? And the over-40 …
Well, at least I can help with that one.
The Over-40 ABC Book
A-Aches and pains. Remember when you could move without stabbing pains in your joints? You don’t? That’s probably for the best.
B-Bifocals. When you realize you can’t tell a picture of Jessica Alba from one of Albert Einstein. And yes, there is a difference.
C-Colonoscopy. Vacation pictures from the lower intestine. You won’t see a polyp like that at Disney World.
D-Depends. Eww, was that you? Depends.
E-Ensure. When scotch and soda no longer count as dietary supplements.
F-Flatulence. No excuses. No guilt. It’s expected. Life goal achieved.
G-Grouchy. What you are while driving, when the gout’s in your big toe, and when the president talks during your favorite TV show. “I don’t care about the stupid economy when Jack Bauer’s shooting terrorists.”
H-Hemorrhoids. What you get when a lifestyle that prevents you from walking decides to prevent you from sitting.
I-Incontinence. The best excuse for going home early. “Oh, I’m sorry, were those your good shoes?”
J-Jars. I hoard quarters, lug nuts, one-cent stamps, and finishing screws in mayonnaise jars. Don’t try to find them. I buried them in the yard and I have a pellet gun.
K-Knees. You know you have them because of the arthritis; you just can’t see them anymore.
L-Lounge chair. A chair, a couch, and a bed, all in one. I could sit here all day. Oh, wait, I did.
M-Memory loss. …
N-Nothing’s as good as it used to be. Darn tootin’.
O-Orneriness. You can now get away with anything. “Who put the dead squirrel in the cheese dip? Oh, Uncle Jim. You are so funny.”
P-Prostate exam. At least when gangsters finger somebody, it’s quick.
Q-Quiet. Everything’s too loud-except conversations.
R-Rambling. Some stories don’t have a point. “When I was your age youngsters went to school, held two jobs, and wore garlic in their trousers because the Democrats gave vampires the right to vote. Now I remember this one time …”
S-Senior discount. The coffee’s cheap; now if I can only stay awake long enough to drink it.
T-TV trays. The greatest invention known to man, next to the lounge chair. No, really. It’s right next to my lounge chair under the TV Guide. (Which, of course, is a viable alternative “T” because it’s the book that tells me what time Jack Bauer’s going to shoot terrorists.)
U-Underwear. Once it was tight, once it was white. Now it starts high and hangs to my thigh.
V-Varicose veins. Cheaper and surprisingly more aesthetically pleasing than tattoos.
W-Wattle. When your neck keeps moving long after you’ve stopped. Who’s that in the mirror? Alfred Hitchcock? Oh, wait, it’s me.
X-X-ray. The inside of your body’s been mapped better than Google Earth.
Y-Yelling. See Quiet.
Z-Zipper. Is my fly open? Pfft. I just don’t care anymore.
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You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
