It Beats Pushing Up Daisies

From the Boynton Beach Chronicles and Isaac

By William Rabinowitz

(AKA Jerry Klinger)

BOYNTON BEACH, Florida — The other day, I was quoted in a newspaper article. The writer wrote, “William Rabinowitz, 74, a retired financial services executive from Rockville, Maryland, said…”

Retired, and where I lived, that was fine by me. But why did they have to say I was 74? Mentioning I was 74 was like a dagger. I read about other people being 74. They were so old.

I don’t feel 74, 54 maybe. OK, I’ll go for 64.

Morning comes with my iPhone alarm set for 6:17. Have to get up, or Isaac, our new pup, missing his morning poop walk, will poop on the carpet in the dining room.

Out of bed, a bit painfully, definitely careful, from the arthritis which I blame on the wife.  ’ve told her a hundred times at least, “When we got married, now 46 years ago, I did not have arthritis. See what a very long marriage to you has done!”

I hobble into to the bathroom open the medicine cabinet and begin the morning ritual. First things first, a bright red Advil pill. Shower, brush the teeth, and a heavy workout regimen of 25 push-ups from the waist up while leaning over the vanity.

Don’t want to overdue things first thing in the morning before a morning cup of tea backed up with two Excedrin and a boatload of vitamin pills with Zinc and D3 to avoid Covid. The Excedrin are very important. They are loaded with a vital restorative, heavy doses of caffeine. I can’t even think straight without my morning tea… It’s not early Alzheimer’s, I tell myself.

Takes about an hour, the Advil, the Excedrin, the tea, and a bagel loaded with honey and a smear of butter, not too much, have to take care of one’s physique. Isaac is off to his poopy walk down the street pulling me all the way.

The article identifying me as 74 really bothered. I borchered to the wife all morning. Sitting in the Dunkin’ Donuts with her, I insisted I’m not 74. “I don’t feel 74. I don’t look 74. I’m only 54 and a smidgeon more.”

Her responses always cut right to the core.

“Ok,” she said. “If you are 54, you do remember you have a son with three grandchildren who is 44?”

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is that yank of the cord of reality from she who I have given the best years of my short life to. No even a hairbreadth of lying to help me feel better.

“Sheila, I don’t remember 74 years. It can’t be so.” I protested over the ice coffee and a bite of awful tasting avocado toast ala microwave.

“Why did the article writer have to say I was 74? I am willing to go along with the rest. But my age? It makes me sound old.”

She looked up from her mini-bagel pocket stuffed with cream cheese and chives. She raised her left eyebrow, always her left one. If I see the right one go up, I know I am in trouble.

After all these years, she does not have to say much for me to get the raised eyebrow message.

“Sheila, why couldn’t the writer just leave off my age?” I pleaded.

Not missing a beat, she answered, “About a hundred years ago in England, a reporter wrote an article that quoted a Tribal Member named Sam Cohen. Sam’s quote was very nasty. A lawsuit was filed against Sam Cohen for defamation.”

It was filed against the wrong Sam Cohen.

“What a balagan occurred,” she continued. “The lawsuit had to be defended and then thrown out. There was a bigger lawsuit later, against the writer and even bigger against the paper. They had failed to properly identify the Sam who was quoted.”

Since then, all stories include facts that narrow down who is speaking, where you were from, what you did, how old you were. That is why the writer said you were 74.”

Not satisfied with the answer, I answered back.

“Fine, in this age of senior discrimination, why can’t they say, William Rabinowitz has a green avocado toast stain on the upper right side of his white polo shirt?”

The eyebrow look came back.

I tried a different tactic. “OK, rather than give my age why not something personal, like I have a dimple on my right butt cheek?”

As quick as ever, Sheila said, “No.”

“No what?” I said.

“No, that would be an incorrect way to identify you. You do not have a dimple on your right butt cheek. You have dimples on both. I know. And I love them both,” she said with a twinkle.

I was losing the argument. Trying one last angle to avoid having my age mentioned but acceding to the dimple victory on both cheeks’ argument, I said, “I will be happy to drop my pants and confirm who I am to anyone wanting to know.”

After 46 years, there was no point in arguing further. She was right. I am going to have admit it. I am 74.

“Stop complaining,” she said. “It beats pushing up daisies.”

She was right as usual.

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It’s been a long hiatus, William and Sheila have returned. They have a new furry friend, Isaac, the Cockapoo. Norman moved on. He is sitting patiently for Sheila and William outside “God’s Waiting Room.”

Norman continues living through his own stories.

The Boynton Beach Chronicles, Tails of Norman

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In real life, William Rabinowitz is Jerry Klinger, the President of the Jewish American Society for Historic Preservation, www.JASHP.org