DOCTOR: I have some good news and some bad news.
PATIENT: What's the bad news?
DOCTOR: You've got cancer.
PATIENT: What's the good news?
DOCTOR: You won't outlive your money.
DID YOU KNOW.
AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE, YOUR CO-PAY IS EXCUSED IF:
1. All the good magazines are taken.
2. The person on your left with the hacking cough refuses to cover his mouth.
You know you're 60 when . . .
The first thing you look at in the newspaper is the obituaries.
Happiness is a heating pad.
You realize there's a causal connection between clipping coupons and premature aging.
Super-hold hair gel still doesn't make you look like an indie rock star.
You've attended the funerals of your two favorite cardiologists.
You agonize over how to diplomatically tell the home care worker not to look in your purse.
Your children never call because they still live with you.
Aerobic activity includes drooling.
Before going out, you stand before a mirror wondering, Can these boobs still hold up this clingy little top? (. . . as you reach for the underwire).
You fill the gap between breakfast and the early-bird special with free samples at the mall.
You're becoming increasingly fluent in doctor and med-speak (for example: ischemia).
At gatherings, you secretly compare your liver spots to others'.
You raise cash for a brow lift by selling your signed Beatles poster on eBay.
You have no problem lying about your age. (Why be a slave to your birth certificate?)
When it's cold and damp outside, you begin to mildew.
Your mail includes certain items that arrive in discreet, tamper-evident packages.
The grinning white-haired couple in magazine ads that read "We're having so much fun" disgusts you.
The only high you still get is from standing up too quickly.
The special things you have in common with your new lover are bingo and arthritis.
Hints from your parents to get a place of your own become less subtle.
When stepping onto an escalator, you hesitate until you get the "good" tread.
You realize life is getting shorter and spring for the BMW you've always wanted.
The defiant part of you vows to continue to eat the foods that don't agree with you, until they've learned their lesson.
Your knees are begging to be replaced.
From a late-night infomercial, you secretly order a product that keeps hair from growing out of your ears.
Your Rolodex contains several potential organ donors in case you have to call in a favor.
You part your hair in the middle and no one notices.
You harness restless leg syndrome to power a rocker.
You supplement your Social Security by selling your expired drugs on eBay.
Your Facebook profile includes your medical history.
The successful descent of a steep flight of stairs becomes a media event.
Gray is the new blond.
WebMD is your home page.
You turn a scary color while trying to blow out the 61 candles on your birthday cake.
Your life coach dies.
TERMS USED THROUGHOUT THIS BOOK S
enior Inertia—Medical term defined as a reluctance to move one's body once it has made contact with a soft surface such as a sofa, favorite armchair, or cat.
"&#^&@$%X#!!"—Normal and healthy reaction to being told that your cholesterol is through the roof. (See also TexMex Deprivation in Golden Agers, Oxford University Press).
Grab Bar—Device used to senior-proof one's home; often the first sign that one is capitulating to the aging process, especially if also used to dry wet support socks.
God—Supreme Being in whom you believe because:
• You're the first person in history to gain weight on chemo.
• Your legs can still handle a miniskirt.
• You got a surprise e-mail from an old girlfriend whom you still have in your heart.
Chest Pains—Ordinary and normal response to the thought of mowing the lawn. Your wife presenting you with a honey-do list.
"Specials of the Day"—Something you ask the waiter to repeat if you're too vain to wear a hearing aid.
Valium—The medicine of choice after a. ten hours with your grandchildren, or b. your ex tells you she's marrying someone half your age.
Cougar—What your ex becomes after spending $20,000 of your alimony on plastic surgery and tango lessons.
Mini-bar—All-purpose dispensary to help pass the time in your doctor's waiting room more enjoyably.
Senior Moment—Officially defined as using a. a corkscrew to open a screw-top wine bottle, and b. a tea cozy as a yarmulke (see also additional alerts throughout).
"Outward Bound"—Refers to either a great-outdoors adventure or an exceptionally satisfying bowel movement.
Biopsy—What a cruel lab technician makes you wait two weeks to hear the results of.
Triple Bypass—Technique used to avoid the three people to whom you owe money.
Irrational Exuberance—Source of much erectile dysfunction. The most reliable cure, other than Viagra, is a visit to Lourdes.
Digestive System—Internal mechanism you contact and obtain permission from before consuming two slices of double-rich chocolate cake on your sixty-first birthday.
Kvell—Slang term for the profound and joyful emotion that you experience when a. someone remarks that "your new hairdo makes you look ten years younger," or b. your spouse still remembers the words to "your song."
I.Q. test—Alternate name for the Briggs-Haley Hospital-Gown Aptitude Test, which determines intelligence according to how quickly a patient, by simply following the instructions "back goes front, front goes back," can put on a hospital gown without eitherbursting into tears of frustration or deciding he's going home. (The record—eight minutes, fifty-two seconds—was achieved with the assistance of a kindly orderly.)
Anxiety—The haunting fear, when taking Communion, that the Holy Wafer contains trans fats.
Copyright © 2010 by Richard Smith. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
