WHEN I WAS in my twenties— a long time ago—I was sure I’d never get old. Somehow, I was going to be the first person to circumvent the aging process. I would retain the youthful appearance and physical fitness of my twenties without the use of hair dye, Rogaine, human growth hormone, Botox or surgery. I would stay young, simply because I am me and God loves me.

It ain’t working out that way.

I’ve become a thick-aroundthe middle, wrinkled, chickenskinned, balding, gray-haired, set-in-my-ways, arthritic codger and I’m not a damned bit pleased about it.

Seems like I never feel 100% healthy anymore. One week my right shoulder aches for no apparent reason and, as soon as that heals itself, the bunion on my left big toe becomes inflamed. And so on . . .

I get injured sometimes too. Mind you, I’m not talking about throwing my back out by lifting a fifty pound bag of cement mix. Sometimes reaching over to switch off the lamp next to my bed can cause me to hobble around like Luke McCoy for a week. This aging crap ain’t for wimps.

And I’ve developed a new enemy . . . the mirror. Last Tuesday, I was shaving and there, looking back at me was my father.

I don’t mind having my dad’s features; he’s a good looking guy, like all the Wright boys. I just want to look like he did at 25.

It’s not just the mirror, either. I’m becoming my father in other ways too. That’s not all bad; I love Ole Dad. I just can’t believe how often I’ll hear myself say something and realize I’ve become him.

Lately I’ve heard myself say things like:

“How can these kids listen to that crap? That ain’t even music.”

“How can you stand that hair in your eyes? You look like a damned girl.”

“Kids these days don’t want to work for a living. They want everything handed to em.”

“Why don’t that kid buy some pants that fit?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

“Stop wimperin’ or I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about.”

Dad has a real gift for making borderline inappropriate remarks to the ladies without getting his face slapped. I haven’t mastered that yet.

Once, after spending the entire deer season at camp, Dad told a young lady, “I’ve been in camp so long, even you look good.”

She laughed.

So how come when I told Eva, the young waitress down at Fat Anthony’s, she looked good with a little extra junk in her trunk, I was rewarded with a black eye? It seemed like a compliment to me.

Maybe I’m not my father yet after all.

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