Parts of my body that were once reliable and indispensable have turned against me. But revenge is sweet.
Of all the regrets that I have for getting old, it is not that my facade is wrinkled and course. Not that my teeth are few and far apart, nor that my hair is no longer thick and brown nor my bones strong and upright. Not even the gradual loss of vision and hearing capabilities. I accept the fate that age deals to us all and actually relish this time that no longer insists that I try to impress the ladies with any real or imagined good looks. In fact I have to account to very few people any more because I have outlasted many of them and in so doing am wiser and content with all that I am, warts and all.
To those who would find some aspect of my existence bothersome which feels normal to me, I say “too bad, so sad”. Not that I would deliberately hurt someone. My compassion for other humans is perhaps more implacable now than at any other time though my naivety is surely a thing of the past, and gladly so. No, there is really nothing that depresses me so much about being old save for one thing. These goddamn hands of mine that seem to have forgotten how to grip a thing and hold on to it without deep mental concentration.
There was a time when I would think nothing of holding a glass of water, aiming food towards my mouth, pick up a small object or reach for something in clear sight of my grasp. The thought that I would somehow drop, misdirect or fail to clutch that which my hands were being utilized for was never so much as a consideration that would cause me concern. But that physical capability is no longer a part of me and it is as if my hands have defected from the anatomical functioning they once were a part of as a member of a larger body that worked in unison at the mere thought of acting.
Now I know what Dr. Fantastico had to endure
I curse my hands daily for letting me down and ruining this time of my life that brings me great pleasure. It is indeed the only thing that I would change if I could. Yet for all of the modern marvels that science and technology have provided thus far, nothing is available to restore the function of my hands as they were when I was younger. Pills for erectile dysfunction and hair growth are plentiful on the market. But to date I have seen no medical procedures that restores dexterity to a state of youth, unlike face lifts and tummy tucks that enriches many in the medical field.
But I will have the last laugh yet. I have made plans in advance to have my body cremated when I die. This method will ensure that my body will quickly be distributed back to mother earth who we all share a molecular bond with. I will, in the words of William Cullen Bryant “mix forever with the elements”. The ashes of my body will be caught up with the trade winds and carry me around the globe on their journey to sites I failed to see when I was a living, breathing human being.
Oh the joy of it all, unlike the corpse that sits buried beneath the cold, cold ground, waiting for the worms to have their way with one’s body. The notion that such a slow maggot-consuming process will be a part of our demise is unnerving for me, thus I choose to let the flame deprive the soil of its task.
Except for these fucking hands of mine!
I will have them lopped off before my body is sent to the crematorium and leave them with instructions for my kids to have them buried six feet under, or deeper. I will prescribe that they be wrapped in air tight plastic to ensure that decomposition will be retarded and that those useless claws will agonize over a long period of time before their suffering ends.
This plan has brought me great peace of mind, so now, each time those objects at the end of each arm fail to function as I intend them, rather than curse them and scare the begeebers out of my wife and dogs, I will glare at lefty and righty, and with a sinister smile on my face remind them what is in store for them upon my death.