The Thing

When I was a boy, I used to think getting old meant you could finally eat dessert first and swear in front of children without consequence. It turns out it means making new noises every time you stand and forgetting why you came into the kitchen, even though it seemed important at the time.

Now, my body is no longer a bunker. It’s an old house—creaky, drafty, and home to an old fart who won’t shut up.

The first time I noticed something was wrong was when my left knee started making a noise like someone opening a screen door in a horror movie. I wasn’t doing anything heroic, either. I was bending down to tie my boot, a man preparing for a day of labor, and then I was gripping the edge of the porch rail like a Civil War widow in a thunderstorm, whispering, “Oh Lord, not again.”

My friend Everett, who still wears his high school letterman jacket even though the high school itself burned down in ‘92, swears it’s because I don’t drink enough pickle juice.

“It lubricates the joints,” he says while pouring it into a Mason jar and sipping it like fine wine.

It’s the same man who once got bit by a raccoon and tried to cure it by rubbing bacon fat on the wound. So, take that for what it’s worth.

Please, don’t get me wrong—there are benefits to getting older. For example, nobody asks you to help move furniture anymore. And you’re allowed to complain about everything, from gas prices to modern music to how they don’t make garden hoses like they used to.

Heck, I’ve even perfected the Old Man Sigh. It’s a slow, gravelly exhale that says, “Life’s been hard, son. Let me tell you about it over some coffee.”

But this old house body of mine? It’s full of things I didn’t invite. There’s the thing in my knees that moans every time I try to get into my truck and the one in my back that throws dishes on the floor if I stand too long washing them. I even have a thing in my bladder that wakes me up three times a night to remind me who’s boss. And let’s not even talk about the missing metabolism, which died sometime in 2003 and now hangs around the waistline of my jeans.

Still, there’s a charm in my decay, like an old barn that’s leaning but still standing—full of rusted tools, wasp nests, and stories. People think I’m hilarious when I grunt like a hog whenever I get off the couch. And maybe I am. Life’s not about staying pretty and smooth and young.

It’s about wearing out your parts and doing the things that matter. It’s loving people, planting gardens, feeding chickens, chasing raccoons out of the attic with a broom and a prayer.

So yes, my body’s an old house now. But the lights still work, the roof mostly holds, and the old dude inside—despite the creaks, groans, and colorful language—gets up every morning and heads to work.

Besides, an old house is still a home.

Want to hear about the time I tried yoga with a pulled hamstring and a pulled pork sandwich?