Today, I turned 59.
I don’t expect too much from 59 other than being subjected to a lengthier list of physical ailments.
Fifty-eight proved to be a major pain in the butt.
Literally.
Currently, a physical therapist is working with me on sciatica issues. The pain in my right butt cheek is intense, making it hard to sit. This is likely due to years of poor posture at a computer. Sometimes, by the time I finish writing a column, my entire body has slid all the way down the front of my desk chair and to the floor, with nothing remaining above the desktop but my right hand pecking blindly at the keyboard. I call this posture Body Melt.
Who knows what will be on the screen by the time my forefinger finally finds the final period. When my wife, Brynne, comes upstairs to check on me, it must look as if Thing from The Addams Family is the one actually polishing off my column.
I can’t help but imagine the following dialogue between Brynne and paramedics responding to her 911 call.
Paramedic #1: Whose body is beneath the desk?
Brynne: That’s my husband. Earlier, I heard him arguing with himself about semicolons. You know, the usual madness. He hates semicolons. I came upstairs a few hours later only to find him like this.
Paramedic #2 (kneeling over my carcass): Forget the AED. It’s too late. It’s clearly Body Melt, the severest case I’ve ever seen.
Brynne: Scott’s been melting throughout his 50s. I warned him about his posture.
Paramedic #1 (glancing at the laptop screen): Look. It’s his final column.
Brynne: Dear god. It’s nothing but a long string of semicolons. Maybe I should’ve come up earlier.
Yes, 59 has arrived. Can’t say I’m too excited. Facing a cake with an added candle to extinguish seems dangerous. Shouldn’t I conserve breaths at this age?
I’m not sure when birthdays lost their thrill. Mine have become non-events. I’d probably forget I even had a birthday if not for my employer sending me a birthday card with two two-dollar bills every year.
The company has gifted employees two two-dollar bills since the late 1960s as a unique, memorable way to recognize our personal milestones. Usually I use mine to purchase a cup of coffee (coffee paid for by others is the best coffee there is).
Photo provided by Scott Saalman
Yesterday – Thanksgiving morning – the car line at a Dunkin’ in Fishers was backed up. During the wait, I played Jimmy Buffett’s Christmas Island, one of my favorite holiday albums. I typically don’t listen to Christmas Island until December. I suppose Jimmy’s September death might’ve had something to do with his music playing on Thanksgiving Day. His music is like comfort food for the ears. There was an SUV from Ohio idling in front of me. Its license plate said PRTHD. Shorthand for PARROT HEAD.
Parrot Head, for those who don’t know, is the nickname for Jimmy Buffett fans. I have been one since the late 1970s, before Parrot Head was even coined.
Seeing a stranger’s PRTHD plate while hearing Jimmy sing Christmas songs caused me to change my plans to treat myself to a free cup of coffee. I exited my car, fully forgetting I was still wearing my pajama bottoms that displayed images of Christmas trees (hey, what’s it really matter what you wear to a drive-thru?). I felt a draft through the proverbial “barn door.” I looked down, relieved no cows were escaping.
I knocked on the driver’s side window. She seemed startled to see me, especially after she glanced down at my pajama bottoms. I motioned for her to roll down her window – you know, the way old people will pantomime how they used to manually roll down windows in the good old days before power windows. She looked way too young to remember manual car windows, and I’m sure I looked frighteningly old and crazed while demonstrating some alien form of sign language while in pajamas.
Finally, Ms. Ohio lowered the window – slightly. Maybe she felt sorry for me and was going to offer a handout just so I’d leave.
Before she could say anything like “I have Mace,” I said, “You’re a Parrot Head. I’m a Parrot Head too. I want to pay for your order. It’s been a rough year for us.”
She smiled and thanked me, rolling her window farther down. It was a goosebump moment, the best birthday gift anyone could’ve given me.
Photo provided by Scott Saalman
Another year older isn’t so bad after all – considering the alternative. Plus, I’m happy to be around to finish another column before I suffer Irreversible Body Melt and Brynne has to ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
Contact Señor Semicolon at scottsaalman@gmail.com.