I’m writing this on Monday, February 5th, having just perused the day’s headlines for inspiration while trying to keep it on the lighter side. And what I’ve come up with are, first, some guy in Patterson, New York spray-painting squirrels bright red in order to identify which ones have been coming onto his property and “tormenting” his dogs; second, a lady, now happily married, who found an old, pre-marriage selfie in which her then-unknown husband appears in the background; and finally, Miley Cyrus appearing at the Grammy Awards dressed in nothing but gold safety pins somehow fashioned together into a form-fitting, transparent garment . . . in other words, effectively naked.

Now, admittedly, Miley’s looking really good these days. But I’d still rather look at a painted squirrel than a twerking exhibitionist. Call me old-fashioned; it’s just my personal preference.

In fact, I can’t seem to work up much interest in any of those subjects. But I did sit up and take notice when a breaking news item flashed onto my screen, announcing that Britain’s King Charles III has been diagnosed with an unspecified form of cancer, discovered while he was in the hospital for what was supposed to have been a fairly routine treatment of an enlarged prostate — not an unusual issue for a 75-year-old man.

Now, the world has not yet been — and may never be — advised of the specifics of Charles’ condition. The Crown is, of course, traditionally reticent when it comes to sharing personal details. But this monarch has been far more open than his mother, Queen Elizabeth II, stating that he wishes to help others by drawing attention to the dangers of not taking proper care of one’s health. Good for him. And all the best in his fight against this disease that, while now far more treatable and curable than just a few years ago, is still frightening to contemplate.

And it made me think of another current issue that scares the crap out of me: the upcoming U.S. presidential election, in which the most likely nominees appear to be the incumbent Joe Biden, 81 (with another birthday coming up in November), and Donald Trump, soon to be 78 (in June). Barring any unforeseen calamity between now and the November election, we’ll probably be making a choice between a tired-looking octogenarian and a total sociopath just three years younger. And by the time the next four-year term ends, they will be 86 and 82, respectively.

Now, as a member of their generation, I can attest to the fact that we don’t necessarily lose all of our mental faculties as we get older. And everyone ages differently. But in general, there are things I’ve observed, in comparing notes with friends and relatives around my age, that are pretty much guaranteed to happen to all of us around this time of our lives.

— Physically, you don’t have the energy or the stamina you had a few short years ago. You just don’t. Getting out of bed in the morning — or simply getting out of a chair — can sometimes seem like an enormous effort, and there are days you wonder if it’s really worth it.

— Things ache. Backs, shoulders, necks, arms, legs . . . any and every part of your body, sometimes one at a time, sometimes all at once. A roll-on analgesic becomes your best friend and constant companion.

— Your bladder makes its presence felt much more frequently, suddenly, and urgently. When in an unfamiliar location, the rest rooms are the first thing you look for . . . just in case.

— Your eyesight and hearing are suddenly somewhat diminished. The old bifocals become trifocals, and everyone seems to be mumbling.

— Your annual physical, which always brought in a verdict of “everything looks great,” now ends with, “except for that, you’re in good shape for your age.” Thanks a lot, Doc.

— The little shelf in the kitchen or the bathroom where you keep your prescription bottles is overflowing. Those things seem to multiply like rabbits.

— And mentally . . . well, you’re still compos mentis, as far as you (or anyone else) can tell. But what was the name of that person you were just introduced to? And how many times did you have to read that last sentence before you remembered what it said? Or what was the word for . . . oh, you know . . . that thing . . . ? You can remember every detail of what you and your date wore to the junior prom 60 years ago, but yesterday’s schedule . . . a complete blur. And quick recall . . . well, let’s just say you probably shouldn’t apply to be on Jeopardy. (It’s not the same without what’s-his-name anyway.)

*. *. *

I’m sure you get the picture. And you’re probably wondering whether I think King Charles should abdicate in favor of his son now. In fact, I do not. First, because he’s waited 70 long years to sit on that throne, and he deserves to enjoy it for a while. But also because there’s a huge difference between the demands of his role as King and the role of the President of the United States. The King of England (and all the other parts of the British Commonwealth), while incredibly busy, operates in a largely ceremonial role and as an overseer, while the job of running the country is primarily in the hands of the Prime Minister and Parliament. The King is actually required to stay out of politics. So if he has to cancel some of his public appearances for a while in order to look after his health, the country keeps running smoothly, with other members of the royal family jumping in to fill some of the gaps.

But the job of the U.S. President is that of King and Prime Minister combined, and it’s a job that demands 100 percent of both physical and mental faculties, 24/7. Queen Elizabeth II wore the crown for 70 years. Judging from the “before” and “after” photos of past presidents, even four years of that kind of pressure takes a huge toll on the occupants of the White House.

And yes, if the President is temporarily out of commission, the 25th Amendment kicks in and provides for continuity. And in the worst-case scenario, we have a constitutional order of . . . dammit, I’ve forgotten the word! . . . you know . . . oh right, succession! Next is the Vice President, then Speaker of the House . . . Omigod, no! Please — not him!

*. *. *

So, to get to the end of this diatribe, the point I’m trying to make is . . . uh . . . well, I hope you know, because I’ve lost my train of thought. Feels like time for a nap.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/7/24