Further Evidence of Aging

As if I needed more evidence...

When you reach the age of social security awareness, strange things can happen.   As a retired Federal worker, I am not covered by social security, but my spouse is.   And she recently retired after 23 years at the same bank branch (although having worked for 5 or 6 banks during that time span).

So during the online application process, the Social Security Administration wanted proof of my wife's marriage in support of her (long-ago) name change.   We just celebrated our 40th anniversary and Nancy blithely sent me off to the safe deposit box to get the marriage certificate, license, or whatever it was.   Well, whatever it was, it wasn't there.   We'd just assumed we had it in amongst the passports, birth certificates, mortgage documents, and other records we haven't looked at in decades.  We quickly concluded that we apparently don't have our marriage record.  It got even sillier when I went online to see how to get a copy.   

We were married in Nancy's parent's home on Long Island.  Neither of us had any recollection of obtaining a marriage license, and according to the Nassau County web site, marriage licenses aren't issued by the County, but by three townships and a couple of cities in Nassau County.  My wife and I stared at each other blankly as neither of us knew in which township her parent's home was.  North Hempstead, Hempstead?  We could get a copy from the NYS Health Department, but it would cost us ($30 plus $15 for priority handling plus $7.25 for using a credit card and take 10 business days; without priority handling, it would take 2 to 4 weeks).  I made a wild guess and called the Hempstead Township Clerk's office and explained that we needed a 40 year old marriage certificate but didn't know what office had issued the certificate.   

I suspect that the Hempstead employee thought she had a doddering flower child on the phone who couldn't remember in what town he'd been married...  She asked if I was sure of the wedding date...

After faxing a request for them to find out if Hempstead had our record, we waited eagerly for a response.   In the meantime, the Social Security Administration web site was no longer requesting evidence of the name change.  My wife told me we should still get the copy if possible so she wouldn't have any "issues" if I drop dead.  

The next day, we received a phone message from Hempstead telling us they had our marriage record and how did we wish to pay for it?   In the spirit of elderly flower children everywhere, I gave her my credit card number and commented that Hempstead's price ($16) was much less than the NYS Health Department fee for the same record.  The clerk muttered something about Hempstead also being much faster.

The certificate will be mailed out on Tuesday (Monday being a holiday) and we'll have our record in a few days.   

Any time after that, it will be OK for me to play in traffic.  My wife will be so relieved.

The End of The World?

As a lifelong "baby boomer," I've been accustomed to the notion of "forever young."   Generally, this relates to the idea that inside my body is a young person, personified by me as, say, a 21 year old.   Or maybe 19 year old.   Somewhere around there.   For decades, I've taken in the world around me filtered by my forever-21 eyes.


Something awful has happened.   Recently, an acquaintance has been diagnosed with a form of leukemia and will need some type of bone marrow transplant, and while awful, that's not the point of my post.   A local drive began to sign up people for the bone marrow registry.  You take a swab of your mouth, it's tested for compatibility and if you match someone, you have the opportunity to donate possibly life-saving bone marrow.  I decided to do the testing.


Unfortunately, none of the drive publicity pointed out a flaw in my plan, a most unexpected flaw.   I'm too old.   How could it be that I am too "old" to participate in a bone marrow registry?   How could it be that I am too "old" for anything?   I still crawl around on the floor to play with my grandchildren.   I still ride my bicycle regularly.   What's this too "old" crap?  Sure, I've been an AARP member since they started recruiting 50 year olds, but what's that got to do with it?


Some bureaucrat in the bone marrow registry hierarchy has decided that potential donors must be between 18 and 60 years old.   I'm 2 years late.   I have no idea why 62 year olds are not qualified to donate bone marrow, but the realization that I am too old for anything is truly alarming.  
It must be the end of the world, at least as I know it.  And I'm not so sure I feel fine.

Ibuprofen Is My Friend?

As I wandered through the kitchen this morning, I noticed something on the kitchen table that was mildly disturbing. It was a bottle of ibuprofen, the all purpose, non-prescription, pain killer and anti-inflammatory drug. It's not unusual to find all sorts of rubble on the kitchen table because it's kind of a magnet and collects the detritus of daily life with alarming regularity. However, it occurred to me that the reason the ibuprofen was sitting out there on the table, instead of in the drawer where it "belonged," was because it's used so frequently that we just don't bother putting it away.

You know you've reached a depressing stage in your life when your bottle of ibuprofen lives on the kitchen table... :-)