Milestones, Hailstones, & Gallstones

(I am a destroyer of worlds. After my nap.)
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Last week, I had two firsts. For a start, I had a weather event named after me. You would think the government would at least have the decency to ask me first. Not everybody likes being called an event.

Secondly, this ship that is my life has now officially docked at Port Old Guy. I dropped anchor, and a bag of groceries, and then had to go lie down.

Here’s what happened: at the grocers this past week, I bought some food. (I almost always do. Not much else to do at a grocery, unless you’re armed.) But I also received my first senior citizen discount.

The food part of that last paragraph, I was looking forward to.

As it turns out, every Wednesday at my preferred grocery (I won’t mention their name outright, but it rhymes with “Dublix”), a five percent discount is available to anyone who’s over 60 and fully clothed.

Personally, I already knew I was getting older; after all, I’ve been here watching the whole time. But somehow, I didn’t realize my slide into oldishness was that obvious to other people. While ringing up my perishables (yes, I still say “ringing up” – I’m old), the polite Dublix checkout lady (yes, I still say “lady”) asked me if I knew about their senior discount.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I politely barked.

I looked down and around, checking myself out, hunting for the clue that had tipped off Lady Dublix to my personal tally of decades.

Standard pair of Levi’s, check
Standard single-guy loose-fitting button-up shirt, check
No jaunty, goofy golf cap
No plaid pants pulled up to my armpits
No shorts and sandals with black socks
No t-shirt suggesting anyone “Ask Me About My Grandkids”
No midriff bulge that made me look like I was trying to smuggle undocumented Democrats into Texas
No visible colostomy bags, catheters, hair plugs, or World War II tattoos
No faded, two-year-old “I VOTED” sticker
Nothing in my purchases rolling down the conveyor belt that spoke to prostates, or butts, or liver spots, or an overwhelming urge to move to South Florida.

Maybe it’s the eyebrows. Although for decades I’ve had a standard head of brown hair, I lug around thick, jet-white eyebrows that spontaneously reproduce, like rabbits, or Bruce Jenner jokes. The shrubbery above my eyes looks like something director Peter Jackson, while scouting for Gandalf’s makeup, would’ve rejected as overly whimsical.

In a stiff breeze, my forehead looks like a party favor.

And speaking of wind…this past week, some desk drone deep inside one of our federal acronyms decided to name the next tropical weather system “Barry.” Right now, as we speak, Hurricane Barry is edging on-shore in several Southern States, threatening to water down millions of scotch-and-sodas, well before college football season officially kicks in.

In case you’ve never had a hurricane named after you (outside of divorce filings), it’s an odd feeling hearing your life analyzed and accused on the various TV channels:

Stay tuned for the latest on Barry!
Barry ruins summer weekend for millions
More on the Federal response to Barry
Barry: FEMA insists they’re ready
Trump declares Federal emergency due to Barry
Coming up: an analysis of Barry’s impact on fishing and tourism
Casinos to take huge hit due to Barry
Barry now a threat to low-lying parishes (oh, good – so now I’m careless and Catholic)
Barry is gradually weakening. (don’t remind me)
Louisiana local shop owner still concerned about Barry (Lighten up. It’s not like you own a Chinese lunch buffet.)
This just in! Barry’s been downgraded. (What, am I dating again?)
Barry weakens in Louisiana (I think it was the pralines)
Barry nearly disqualifies three auditioning cheerleaders at Kappa Alpha kegger (this is not breaking news, but during one of my college years, it happened)
There’s a slight chance that Barry will make it to Memphis (And do what? I can’t play the blues.)