Gotta love getting old

It’s official. Two days ago, while visiting San Francisco, I entered the world of professional geezerhood. Whudda thunk I’d ever make it to 65?
Many friends — all seem to fancy themselves years away from three score and five — warned me of personality changes soon to possess both body and mind, a result of being the over-the-hill gang’s newest initiate. According to those professing to be “in the know,” my wardrobe was about to change. Come Oct. 4 it would be all jump suits, all the time. Blue would be the favorite color in my jumpsuit ensemble but orange, yellow, pink and puce would also become favorites.
Concurrent to a jumpsuit wardrobe comes the irresistible urge to buy a big, honking motor home complete with a Sam’s Club sticker on the rear bumper. The motor home, I was further informed, would not be completely outfitted unless it contained a weepy-eyed miniature poodle whose designated role was to either roam back and forth across the dashboard or to sit in my lap while I captained the vessel at a steady 48-mph pace in the left lane on I-70. The poodle would be specifically trained to continually yip at the 75-mph traffic passing on the right.
Other personality changes arriving with the 65th birthday would also include becoming an expert on every all-you-can-eat, senior-citizen discount buffet between the Nebraska-based Baseman’s Truck Stop on I-80 and Whiskey Pete’s just off I-15 where Nevada shares a border with California.
The conversation moved on to men 65 being required to be in bed by seven every Friday evening as one had to be well rested when rising before dawn on Saturday. Why up and at ’em so early on a weekend?
When the discussion turned to the competitive thrills unique to Bingo, it became apparent my friends were going to make turning 65 just as difficult as possible. Who says misery loves company? I opted to head for Baghdad by the Bay.
The daughter of an old friend from the Midwest was married this past weekend, an event offering the perfect excuse for a San Francisco birthday. Plus, I owed myself a visit to the city where I lived 42 years ago, a time so distant it preceded hippies, Haight-Ashbury and the Jefferson Airplane. Upon turning 23, I found myself out of work, out of money and seemingly out of hope. The special lady in my life thought our relationship much too serious and decided it best to go separate ways.
On that Oct. 4 decades ago, a party of one was in order so I jumped on a Hyde Street cable car and rumbled down Russian Hill to the end of the line. The brakeman yelled, “All out for the turnaround.” I headed across the street and wandered into the Buena Vista. At a table for one back in the corner I treated myself to scrambled eggs, sourdough toast and Irish coffee. Sitting there, feeling as sorry for myself as only a 23-year-old can, I wondered if, and/or when, life would improve.
Well, the special lady and I worked things out. Two days ago we visited the Buena Vista, sat by the window and ordered scrambled eggs with sourdough toast. While waiting for our meal to arrive we toasted the blessings of our life together the past 40 years with steaming mugs of Irish coffee.
She asked what I wanted for my birthday. I told her a blue jump suit and a Chihuahua.