Officially older than dirt
I thought it was George Burns who first said, “Getting old is not for sissies.” Turns out it was Bette Davis. Going forward, I intend to keep that adage in mind. I recently turned 75. I’m three-quarters of a century old. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around that. I don’t feel old. But an insurance company recently did its best to remind me of my age.
In 1995, I took out what was then an affordable term life-insurance policy with a prominent national veterans’ organization. The premium rose every five years. That’s understandable. Actuaries do calculate the likelihood of men dying at certain ages. When I turned 70, the premium was $212.25 per quarter. Not cheap, but affordable. Then, suddenly, the premium went up to $771 per quarter.
I thought that must be a mistake, so I called. A cold-blooded agent reminded me that I had recently turned 75 — as if I needed reminding. She proceeded to tell me the premium for men between the ages of 75 and 79 is indeed $771 per quarter. Had the premium gone up $50 or even $100, I might have kept the policy. But an increase of $558.75? That’s calculated to force old guys out of their risk pool. So hand me a towel. The deep end of that pool is too deep for me. I canceled the policy and notified the sponsoring veterans’ organization I wouldn’t be renewing my membership.
The moral of the story: Beware of age 75, men! That’s when the number-crunching actuaries begin to count us out.
On the plus side, I realize I’m fortunate to have gotten to 75 with no major ailments. I credit the Marine Corps for that. For 20 years, they kept me active and made me watch my figure. I became an officer during the reign of Commandant Lean Lou Wilson. To be fat then was to be shown the door out of the Corps. To help keep us slim, General Lean Lou’s Marine Corps stressed running. So much so that a general who could get away with it once said, “If the next war is fought in running shoes, we’ll be ready!” But it was all for my own good.
Truth be told, there have been some mixed blessings in becoming “older than dirt.” (That’s Marine Corps parlance.) For one thing, my weight has gotten redistributed. I no longer have much of a behind. My hips are now so narrow that I have to be careful to cinch my belt up tight. More than once, I have almost suffered an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.
I’ve also found that my appetite is not what it used to be. As a consequence, I’ve lost some weight without trying. Not enough, frankly, but a little! And my tastes have changed. Give me a choice between steak and Chinese or Vietnamese food, and I’ll go Asian every time. Mrs. Palm blames that on my love for spicy foods, especially hot ones. She says I’ve burned out my taste buds. Maybe so, but I have to work with what I’ve got.
And then there is my hearing. The VA and Mrs. Palm both say I have a hearing deficit. I’ll admit to having tinnitus. I’ve had it since Vietnam. No matter what I’m doing I tend to keep the television on. It’s a great white-noise generator. It keeps me from hearing the ringing in my ears. The good news is the VA gave me some high-tech Bluetooth hearing aids. My only complaint is that they synch with my iPhone. If I inadvertently touch one of my hearing aids, Siri suddenly demands to know whom I wish to call. She also eavesdrops on conversations and picks up on keywords. Suddenly, she pops up, telling me she can’t find that website. It makes me wonder what agency Siri may be reporting to.
Oh, and while I’m in my curmudgeon configuration, I should complain about my cataract surgery. It went well. It wasn’t timed well. I had one eye done just before COVID hit and all elective surgeries were canceled. I had to endure a “vision imbalance” for five months before I could get my second eye done. My distance vision is now better than 20-20. But because I have glaucoma — well controlled glaucoma, I might add — I didn’t qualify for the multifocal lenses. I still need reading glasses.
Mrs. Palm, who last year had her cataract surgeries within a month of one another, qualified for the multifocal lenses. But I’m not bitter.
So in the words of the great Joe Walsh, “I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do.” And along with Walsh, I’ll admit that “life’s been good to me so far.” Not as good as it has been to Walsh, perhaps, but good enough.
Contact Ed Palm at majorpalm@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on Kitsap Sun: Ed Palm: Officially older than dirt
