You’re only as old as you feel or until somebody tells you

Chuck Kurtz

Chuck Kurtz

It’s not that I don’t know I’m getting older.

I mean, that’s just a fact of life. From the day we’re born, it is our destiny to get gray-haired, wrinkled, to feel aches and pains longer, and to develop love handles.

I get it.

But I don’t need to be reminded of it!

My mom, who claims to be 39 but in reality is 83, recently had to undergo some tests at the local hospital. I drove her there and sat with her while the gal checked her in typing all her vital information into the computer.


The gal’s fingers clicked quickly across the keyboard typing in my mom’s response and I lazily slumped back in the chair and stared at some picture on the wall while thinking about what I needed to get done that day.

“Any allergies?”

Clickety, clickety, click-click.

“Phone number?”

Clickety, click-click, clickety.

“Who do you want listed as a contact? Your husband here or a son?”

I was jolted out of my dream state.

“No, my son because…” I heard my mom start to answer.

“What did that gal say?” I was asking myself. “Did she call me my mom’s husband? What? Did I hear that right?”

“…my husband is dead; this is my son.”

I looked at the gal sitting behind the computer, my right eyebrow raised to show my disgust: “She did say that. Do I look that old? Well, that gal’s no spring chicken herself. I’ll be she’s at least…40!”

I calmed down and was able to slow my heart rate by convincing myself that the gal probably hadn’t been able to have her morning cup of coffee, yet. Lack of caffeine can be a miserable thing.

Then it was time to go to the lab where they were going to run the tests on my mom.

“Great,” said the gal, who had to be at least 45, behind the glassed-in room. “Let me get these papers together and sent back and they should be with your very soon.”

And then…

“By the way, will you be waiting in here for your wife?” she asked, looking at me.

My right eyebrow raised again.

“What?” I asked.

“No, this is my son, and yes, he’ll be waiting,” my mom interjected.

Good thing, too, because I was about to ask that gal when her baby was due knowing full well she wasn’t pregnant!

Twice in one day — within one hour — two people assumed I, a young and vibrant 63-year-old man, was the husband of my 83-year-old, getting-a-test-done mother!

My mom’s tests were fine and after I dropped her off at her house, I went home, looked in the mirror and applied some of my wife’s moisturizing cream on my forehead, under my eyes and on my cheeks all the while muttering, “Call me old, why I never…Just wait ’til they turn 63, I hope someone asks them if they are their dad’s wife!”

I felt better after eating some lunch and taking a nap. I was ready to head out the door and go to my son’s house to babysit granddaughters Rylin, 4, and Ashlyn, 1-1/2, that afternoon.

As Rylin and I got ready to play a game, I was standing in the doorway — sideways.


“Yes, Rylin.”

“Why is your belly so big?”

All I could do was raise my right eyebrow.

I am now dieting and buying stock in the company that makes the moisturizing cream.




One Response

  1. Chuck don’t worry. Now when they start calling you Terri’s dad then you need to worry.

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