Take two and call me in the morning

You know you're getting old when you get excited the doctor upped your dosage of Gabapentin, a nerve relaxant for those under the spell of sciatica. You're also getting old when you can't remember the name of your new favorite medicine and just refer to it as Gabagool, an ode to Tony Soprano.

Years ago there was a stand up comedian, now billionaire, Jeff Foxworthy, who made a mint on the simple premise of, "You might be a redneck if __________." That was followed by a panoply of disparaging remarks about inbreeding, beers and guns, and the kind of soft racism that passes for acceptable in America. In other words the GOP platform. 

SFX: Rim Shot.

I suppose I could take to the road and workshop a whole routine based on, "You might be an old man (or woman,) if _________"

Fact is, I'm 67 years of age and that's officially old. 

The cognitive dissonance here is I don't feel old. And I have the Strava history of physical activities to prove it. Last week for instance, on an unusually warm and uncrowded day at the Culver City Plunge, I knocked out a mile in less than 31 minutes for an average pace of 1:53 per 100 yards.

Nevertheless I have the geriatric accoutrements that confirm my old man status. Knee braces. Heating pads. A freezer fill of Ice packs. And of course a growing collection of pills. As well as a growing concern that I may need one of those old lady pillboxes to assort my multitude of round white pills, oval sized pills and gel caps. It can be confusing.

"Did I take the Gabagool?"

"How many Baxoflen am I allowed"

"What about my..."

You didn't think I was going to go through my whole list of meds, did you? The point is, it's not easy keeping track of all this. Especially when I have to split each of medications into two and keep one vial downstairs and one upstairs. That tends to double the confusion factor. 

I never claimed to be a smart man.

I am however an impatient one. Despite living in Southern California for more than 40 years and working on my chill and zen attitude. Which is always put to the test on my increased visits to the pharmacy. 

Come on people, just walk up to the counter, spout your date of birth and your name, get your pills, potions and industrial strength suppositories and go. This isn't the place to ask questions. The nice lady at the counter may be wearing a white lab coat but she's just a glorified cashier. Chances are I have a better understanding of pharmaceuticals than she does. Read the damn pamphlet they stuff in the bag. Oh no...no...she's asking for a consult!!! 

"Pharmacist to the counter."

Here we go. I'm gonna be here forever.

I need an Atavan.