Senior citizen practice - and smelt

Sometimes I think my life has been practice for being retired.

I’ve worked way too many menial jobs, which prepares me well for a future that more than likely will involved passing out shopping carts or giving away samples of cheese products at some huge airport hangar of a store.

I’ve learned to live on an income that I learned last weekend falls below what is called the middle of the middle class these days. What was I thinking becoming a writer? Why didn’t I become an accountant or even a dental hygienist?

And in the last week, I had two experiences to remind me further of my future 25 or so years hence.

One was taking a coach bus trip to a smelt fry in Port Washington, Wisconsin, a sort of suburb of Milwaukee. Even there I saw condos along the highway selling for $240,000 which is another story.

I had not done a trip like this as an adult. I went by myself, largely because I could find no one who had the time or wanted to head north for a whole day to chow down on small fish.

Flying solo is something I figure will be easier when in my 60s. I can pretend I am a widow. It will seem gloomily romantic and mysterious, instead of how it may look now, which is “poor guy can’t find any friends” (for which being a writer is good cover, but for the fact for most excursions they ask if I want to bring along someone).

Anyway, the bus ride included snacks and silly smelt songs and beer and meeting some nice people who kept me company.

Aside from heading to an American Legion Post to eat, the day involved a stop in Cedarburg, a pleasant enough place with the requisite “cute” shops and taverns.

I shop at Kohl’s and book and music stores, so cute does nothing for me. And this afternoon, I didn’t really feel in a drinking mood.

There was this barely 21 doofus from Chicago who was. He wound up passing out before dinner time in the park in front of the Legion. How cute he looked curled up in the fetal position, perhaps imitating a smelt being fried.

Good thing he didn’t sit by the Japanese sushi chef who brought his own rice to snack upon and who was talking about eating raw horse meat.

Which is what my leg felt like, which is my other senior citizen experience.

See, I have this circulation problem, a varicose vein thing. That means I am supposed to wear support stockings, which I am sure some paramedic will find humorous some day should I be in a car wreck.

The vein in the one leg was swollen in three spots and tender, so I went to the doctor.

They did an ultrasound, which involved dropping underwear. They give you a towel to cover, which makes me laugh. I mean, they are health professionals. A frightened, flaccid penis should not upset them.

Anyway, it turned out to be surface clots, so I have to keep my leg elevated as much as possible for about two weeks or until the swelling subsides. And I have to put a heating pad on it a couple times a day.

This is just like being old – or me on a weekend during football season.

The wake-up call for all of this was when the check-in clerk at the hospital asked me for a contact in case I had to be admitted.

My family is all out West, my closest relatives a good 45 miles away. I didn’t give her any name, partially because I felt optimistic about not being admitter, partially because I don’t know which friend I’d lay that responsibility on.

So for you married types who wish to live vicariously through us singles, remember that.

I wonder if George Clooney has worries like this?