AMERICUS — You must admit, there is a lot of emphasis on aging these days. Maybe it is because we “Baby Boomers” are approaching retirement age with the force of the Nancy Hanks on a straight stretch of track. Maybe it is because, at my stage of the game, you begin to take notice.

I remember as a brash 30-year-old I wrote to the Social Security Administration offering to let them keep everything I had contributed so far, in exchange for letting me out of the system. I believed then, as I do now, that I would have come out ahead investing my own money for my retirement. Well, that offer is now off the table. It’s too late, guys. I’m now less than one year from the ability to draw Social Security, and I’m not giving back a red cent.

My mother, a bit of a rebel in her day, loved Bill Clinton. She wrote him a letter to tell him so and received, in return, an 8 x 10 glossy with a faux autograph. For her, President Clinton could do no wrong. She didn’t believe the stories of sexual escapades and thought the impeachment was just a witch hunt. She loved President Clinton and she proudly framed that autographed picture and displayed it in her front hall.

Then one day I noticed the picture was missing. I asked her what had happened to her treasure. I figured my father could have slipped it into the trash, since he did not share her enthusiasm for the former president. I asked again and she hemmed and hawed and finally told me she had put it away. “He wants to tax our Social Security!” No further explanation was necessary. I feel her pain.

Lately, along with the long-anticipated Social Security benefits, I’ve been doing some financial projections. As it stands now, I’m going to have to work until I’m 93 unless my ship comes in. I’ve written about my “bucket list” in this space before. I’m not about to give up on any of my wishes and I have no desire to temper reality with the facts.

And there are those little health issues that have begun popping up on my 61-year-old radar screen. My recent knee surgery has not been quite as minor as I was led to believe. Hair has shifted on the tectonic plates of my body. Just as real as seismic activity, my once hairy legs and arms are now as hairless as a little girl’s, but my chest and back make me look like an escaped orangutan.

As a teenager I had a unibrow … you know, just one row of peach fuzz that spanned my brow. Soon, girlfriends, then wives would work on my unibrow, altering what the good Lord had given me. Eventually the unibrow gave way to some pretty bushy eyebrows. The more I began to look like Andy Rooney, the more the women in my life picked and plucked.

Actually, I sort of liked the bushy eyebrows until they began to turn gray. Not interested in dyeing my brows, I allowed the plucking until finally nature gave in and the hair above my eyes moved on to the greener pastures of my back, shoulders and chest.

None of that bothered me until the other day my bride casually showed me a magazine article that addressed back hair removal. I believe it involved some chicken entrails, a razor blade and a window fan. I’m not interested in any treatment that involves pouring hot wax onto my body.

She also let me know, very lovingly and very subtly, that I might want to consider investing in a nose hair trimmer. I obeyed and proceeded to eliminate every vestige of nasal hirsuitism. Oh, I probed and twisted and trimmed every one of those little boogers out. I had clean shaven nostrils and then moved onto my ears.

I must digress to tell a short, but true story. I once met a man who worked in a downtown Atlanta department store. This man had ears that were completely hidden by coarse hair. At the very top, the hair grew to a fine point. I don’t think a Dixie Chopper could have helped this guy. I looked at the tag on his suit and, if I’m lying I’m dying, his name was Harry Wolf. I didn’t get close enough for him to bite. The fact that the silver department was on the same floor, didn’t give me much comfort, for to my knowledge, Richs never actively marketed silver bullets.

OK, so here I am clean shaven inside, if not out. Nostrils and ears are hairless and I’m feelin’ young and frisky. Trouble is, nowhere on the trimmer instructions does it tell you what to do when the bristles start growing back inside your nose. I woke up two days later and it felt like some had packed the old schnozzle with sandspurs and thumbtacks while I slept. Thank goodness I never considered using the “magic wand” on my back and shoulders. I can just imagine what a porcupine must feel like.

Now my bride has bought “Age Defying” toothpaste. Just what does that mean? I can tell you that if involves anything other than a regular toothbrush I’m not buying into it. I floss and brush and my teeth seem to be the only portion of my body that is holding its own, and if she comes up with any other disgraceful, anti-aging, hair removing products, you may just need to call me Slick.



Boyce E. “Stick” Miller III, an award-winning columnist, lives and works in Americus.