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As I've stumbled into old age, I am growing more forgetful. Retired, I have lost track of the hours and days. I've even lost track of the years. When I write a check, I have to think twice about the year after I've asked the person to whom I'm directing the payment the day and month.

My most prominent display of distractedness is that I'm leaving my zipper down. Even though I keep chastising myself for this forgetfulness, I can't break the habit. I'm amazed that I will be entering a public place. Knowing that I am leaving my zipper down, I check and, lo and behold, it's down again.

For many years I never wore underwear nor socks. I liked that I could unbutton my shirt, pull down my pants and kick off my loafers and I would be nude, but these endless episodes convinced me that I needed to wear underpants as this carelessness plagued me while I was teaching. What would my students or even my colleagues think and do if they noted a few pubic hairs sprouting from my pants? 

Everything seems to be deteriorating as I add to my woes. To illustrate I haven't left my bad habits behind for new ones, I checked myself yesterday as I entered the supermarket and, sure enough, my zipper was down. I find this scenario more humorous than embarrassing. I have my underpants as a second line of defense.

Indicative of my passing years, I'm finding it more difficult to both ejaculate and defecate. I take Viagra for the former and Metamucil for the latter, but I find myself struggling to relieve myself. The only advantage compared to my more youthful days is that the relief is more exhilarating. Whether it's sperm spurting from penis or excrement plunking into the water beneath me, the satisfaction of escaping these burdens is a liberating euphoria.

As I enter my eighth decade, I'm aware of the possibility of falling. I live by myself on the second floor of an apartment. The stairs are steep--there are 15 steps as I counted them on my way up--and I now grab the rails firmly. Showering and slipping in the tub or walking and tripping over an uneven sidewalk are continual threats. Falling flat on one's face can have serious repercussions. 

There are scores of other worries both in regards to health and wealth that make the golden years seem more like copper. I'm making a valiant effort to retain the little youth that remains in me, but I'm spotting old people who are not much older than me but have crossed the threshold as they shrink and display a fragility that puts them on the edge of eternity.

I don't want to live like that. I don't want to look like that. I don't want to merely survive. Hunter Thompson, the guru of gonzo journalism, found February rather than T.S. Eliot's April to be the cruelest month of the year. 

Living in frozen Colorado, he would sink into a deep depression when the NFL season ended. His young wife would grow worried when he would pull out a .45 caliber pistol and start polishing it. One bone-chilling day he stuck the pistol into his mouth and fired it. He left this note which he entitled: "Football season is over."

He wrote: "No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always grouchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt."

Today is my birthday. I'm 70.

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