Age-old advice from your ill-respected elder

Young whippersnapper,

I wish I could be around when you're older. I would love to watch you, your tired eyes in shock at the way your body slowly fails. Your eyes don't change, you know. Your wrinkly eyelids will permanently close upon the same eyes, in the exact same size, that first popped open when you shot out of your momma's belly. That's why baby eyes are so wide. It's not because they're in awe. They don't know awe from shit at that age.

I hear the comments you make at me. I don't know how I always end up in your line at the grocery store, but then there you are, talking at me like I'm a retard. Old man this, geezer that. If I had the strength, I'd break your knuckles and give you an early taste of arthritis. You speak as if I chose this body, these rotting teeth and drooping cheeks. It's like you're scolding me for my bad decision, like God offered bodies and you, in your wisdom, took the young body, and I smugly took the old.

I surprise myself in the mirror every morning. I know myself from my memories, of times with the girls and the strength to fight a war. I wake up and I'm a little achy, but I was achy back then, too. Then I look in the mirror and sigh. I'm an old bastard. I know it. I know it all too well, and I don't need you to remind me.

Remember, I was your age, and you'll be mine. There's no going back for either of us, so soak it all in while you can. Scan those gallons of milk with every fiber of your soul, because your muscle fibers won't help you put it in your refrigerator in 60 years. Remember every girl you kissed, because you'll forget your own damn address soon. I don't know much about biology, but I know I'll be lucky if my body still exists inside my wooden box by the time you lose your hair. It's a shame. I wonder if I'd console you, or enjoy watching you suffer.

I act old because I am old. It's all I can do to keep myself happy. If I tried to do what I did at your age, I'd fall flat on my face and break a hip. Both are depressing, but at least one is more comfortable. I remember my young body, when I did things that would make you gasp. I talk of intimacy and you'd probably think of this wrinkly old cadaver, but I was just like you. My skin was just as tight, my reflexes just as quick. I didn't lose those experiences; I just can't have them anymore. So cut me some slack, child. You'll wish some young whippersnapper did for you when you come to know what any of this means.

Henry