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 A Boomer’s Journal

By Tom Anselm

In keeping with the end of October and the madness that is Halloween, I tried to come up with a spooky-scary commentary. That dream sequence I related a few weeks ago may have qualified, but alas, it is old news today.

And I can’t get into current national politics… that is just way too frightening for a family newspaper.

But there are certainly a number of things that make the hair rise on my arms, if not my head. The most glaring of these is one I face every morning. And that is, well, my face. I have long known that I could start Tommy’s Skin Donation Clinic by virtue of the folds around my eyes. And the cheeks, they qualify for their own zipcode when pulled east and west. Not to mention the waffly-ridgy stuff on the medial surfaces of my arms and legs. When did this happen, I muse, daily?

Luckily, I have a pretty active metabolism, so the square inches of this deterioration are limited, but the word ‘elasticity’ has long since been abandoned when referring to my skeletal covering. Things could always be worse, I know. But that early-morning visage glaring back at me is enough to prompt a dimming of lights and avoidance of mirrors like a vampire might. (Speaking of which, how does Good Old Count D. know if he has food stuck between his fangs? I guess he just asks Countess D. Kinda like when I ask the lovely Jill if I have any ‘bats in the cave.’ Ahh, the duties we ask our spouses to perform, eh, Countie?)

Now another piece of life’s frighteners is taking to the highways and byways. More and more people are pretending to drive while really just using this time to check their electronic devices. You just never know if the dude in the black pickup that is bigger than my first house is paying attention to the fact that I have just come to a complete stop on I-270 at rush hour.

I clench the wheel as I glare in the rearview mirror and hope for the best. Or brace for the worst. And of course there are those lovely lane-changers who are living out their NASCAR fantasies who seem to come out of the ethosphere to materialize mysteriously just millimeters away from my right bumper.

“You saw that guy, right?” says the spousal co-pilot.

“Of course I did,” I lie, as the adrenaline surge turns my legs into noodles.

Nor am I a fan of elevators. I know, I know. They are mostly perfectly safe and expertly maintained. Still, there is always something unnerving about getting into a 12 X 6 metal cubicle that is hanging by steel cables that are who-knows-how-old in a hollow shaft that may extend upward at least hundreds of feet, and that is just on the ground floor. Not to mention the perfect strangers who, in a power failure, may become my new best friends for who-knows-how-long. And in pitch-darkness, no less.

Admit it, don’t you sometimes glance sidewise at your fellow travelers, wondering which of them would go insane first? Well, it would probably be me, so if you are ever in an elevator with me, that question is already answered. I would be clawing my way up the wall in search of escape in minutes.

I recently stepped into The Potential Box of Doom at a downtown parking garage where it didn’t even come down to the street level. We had to go up a flight to get on. It shook and shuddered like it was the first elevator ever made, one of the floor indicator lights was punched out, and there were a lot of guys on it who were way out of the insurance company guidelines for height/weight ratio. I got off at the next floor, even though my dislike of steps is almost equal to my disdain for elevators.

As I am writing this note, you can see that I arrived safely at my destination, but not without some sweaty armpits.

Okay, I realize these moments of scarishness are those which cannot be avoided. I am not walking up to the 20th floor anywhere, and driving beats hitchhiking. And the face-skin thing… well, no big deal really. It is just what I am “faced with.”

But you can bet I ain’t flyin’ over no dang oceans, Ambien notwithstanding.

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