[Author’s note: I was recently asked to give a talk at my 50th high school class reunion. I attended an all-boys’ military school called the Albany Academy from first grade through 12th. The Reunion event organizers who asked me to give a speech failed to provide any guidelines or constraints about topics. So, if you ask me, anything I said in my speech that turned out to be upsetting or embarrassing, well, that’s on them. Below are excerpts from my actual class reunion remarks to my fellow classmates from my high school Class of 1973. – Tim Jones]
I was recently invited to give a prepared speech at my 50th high school class reunion. I graduated 1973 class valedictorian (honest). Needless to say, since I went on to pursue a career as a humor writer, many of my classmates pulled their grandkids aside and used my career choices as a cautionary tale. Happy to help those kids learn from my mistakes.
Hello. I’m Tim Jones. It is great to see so many of my former classmates from the class of 1973, some of whom still vaguely recall who I am. Over the next couple of days, I look forward to reconnecting with many of you, to learn in great detail how you became so much more successful in your career than I did.
I’ve never been one to toot my own horn, but in our senior year, my classmates voted me “Person Most Likely to Disappoint his Father.” Given that I’ve been a humor writer for the past 15 years, I feel I truly nailed this award. So, thanks to all of you who voted for me back then. For what it’s worth, I voted for Hirschberg. Heck, he’s currently in prison for embezzlement, so I kind of feel he deserves this award more than me.
I want to acknowledge a few individuals. First, I want to congratulate my classmate Drew Rider on being inducted into the school’s Athletic Hall of Fame. Well deserved, Drew. But to be perfectly honest, many people have said that the ONLY reason I was not inducted last night right alongside you was due to my overwhelming lack of athletic talent, speed, stamina, and strength. But I disagree. If you ask me, I was blocked due to my bad penmanship.
I want to acknowledge my friend Ned Reinhardt. Ned initiated a series of periodic zoom calls when the Pandemic happened. It was his idea to try to bring our class together to share stories about our lives. Fun fact: Throughout all those many Zoom calls, Ned never once wore pants. Maybe it’s a German thing, I honestly don’t know.
That’s me on the right, along with a classmate on the left in a scene from our high school play, Inherit the Wind, a courtroom drama. One of us went on to a distinguished acting career. The other one wrote this caption you’re currently reading. I’ll let you guess which one was me.
I guess I should also congratulate my classmate Brad Williams, who unlike me, got accepted into Princeton. I only made the Waiting List. Way to go, Brad. Thanks for taking my spot at Princeton, you son of a bitch.
Then there’s Blake Pickett. Not exactly what you’d call a jock back in high school, if we’re going to be honest here. But a few years ago, in his sixties, this guy actually rode his bicycle from his home outside of Washington, DC all the way across the country, eventually showing up at my doorstep near Seattle. Over 3,000 miles! Very impressive, Blake.Although I heard a rumor he rode Amtrak from St. Louis to Boise, Idaho. Probably not true.
As for me, I had a wonderful experience at the Academy. I served a 12-year sentence – which is almost six years longer than the sentence Hirschberg is currently serving. I mean, I attended the school for 12 years. The Academy, with its strong emphasis on a military education, taught me many useful life skills, like how to disassemble an M-1 Rifle. I can’t count the number of times I’ve made use of that unusual knowledge over the years. No wait, um, actually I can. Never. Not once.
I guess my proudest accomplishment while at the Academy was being selected class valedictorian. I like to think it was because of my impressive GPA… and not at all because I had threatened to release a batch of seriously incriminating photos of members of the Board of Trustees if I was not chosen.
Most past valedictorians of our prestigious institution went on to distinguished careers such as heads of companies or university professors. Some even went on to impressive careers as philanthropists. And I….. um, well, I followed a different path. You see, I eventually became a humor writer.
My 12 years at what was then an all-boys’ school taught me the importance of self-discipline, perseverance, and leadership, not to mention how to behave extremely awkwardly around girls because I was never around any of them. After I graduated, I went onto the University of Virginia – mainly because someone took my spot at Princeton. But I’m not mentioning any names. I went on to get a law degree. But I never did practice law – which is a shame, actually, because the legal profession uses lots of Latin legal phrases – many of which I already knew because my high school Latin Teacher pressured me into taking THREE YEARS OF LATIN at the Academy. Here’s the sum total of what I remember from three years of Latin: Carpe Diem. Yeah, that was worth it. Sigh.
Many previous class valedictorians from my prestigious private college-prep school went on to pursue distinguished careers as diplomats and doctors. By contrast, I went on to produce humor videos dressed up as a cat. My father would have been so proud.
After law school, I smartly decided to pursue a career in sales management in an up-and-coming industry with a bright future – daily newspapers. I later joined a series of dotcom internet startups, most of which eventually went belly up. Finally, at age 54, I decided to leave the corporate rat race and become a humor writer. I’ve done well over my career. Not to brag, but according to my math, I’m almost certain I am one of the 50 wealthiest members of our entire… 42-person class.
Unless you’re measuring success by net worth. In that case, I did much worse.
But I have had a wonderful life. No complaints. My wife of 37 years is from Canada. We adopted two beautiful baby girls from China. Our daughters are both grown up now. And this may surprise you, but to this very day … they’re both still embarrassed to be seen with me in public. And when they learned that their dad was Valedictorian, they both agreed … there must have been some irregularities in the vote count for valedictorian that year. Yeah, they’re probably right.
But, deep down, I believe with all my heart that, if my father were still alive today to see how I turned out after the Academy, he’d probably put his arm around me, and with tears in his eyes, say, “My dear son. I paid for 12 years of your private school education at the Academy… And you became a HUMOR WRITER? … Hell, for God’s sake, son! Even your class’s laziest slacker, Benny O’Donnell, became a doctor!”
Thank you very much.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I’m a big believer in tipping generously for quality service. I never would have been able to afford college were it not for the tips I earned waiting tables to pay for school. But lately, it seems tipping for services is getting out of hand.
The tradition of tipping service providers has been around for at least four centuries. Evidence suggests it first began in Europe during the 17th century, when aristocrats would give people in lower classes extra money for their services. In the United States, the practice of leaving tips began shortly after the Civil War, often in the form of added remuneration paid to freed slaves working in difficult conditions.
It is speculated the word “TIP” may come from the phrase “To Insure Promptness” – and not, as I had long theorized, “Totally Inexcusable Piracy.”
Okay, enough with the history lesson. While I appreciate the noble origins of this practice, it’s starting to feel like it’s getting out of hand. Is it just me or does it seem like everybody is expecting to receive a tip these days? I have no problem tipping waiters, taxi drivers, and the occasional bellman who errantly brings my luggage to the wrong hotel room.
I routinely give my stylist at the hair salon a 20% tip – which is generous, given how little hair I have left anymore. I’m a believer in the importance of tipping, especially for low-wage earners. I waited tables for three years during college. Without tips, I never would have been able to pay for my education and would probably have dropped out to become a Walmart greeter.
Tipping is as American as apple pie … and as confusing as calculus. When I was young, 10% was a normal tip. At some point, this changed to 15%. But lately, it seems servers get offended if you leave anything less than 20%. Some restaurants even tack on an automatic 20% tip surcharge. What are the rules for when you should tip, and how much? I have no clue anymore.
Not long ago, I was at a restaurant. When the server brought the credit card machine to the table, the readout gave me three options for the tip: 20%, 25%, and OTHER. I wonder what would have happened had I selected OTHER and entered 15%. I’m guessing my receipt printout might have read, “Wow, you are one cheap bastard!”
How long will it be before you’ll be expected to tip your local fireman for putting out your house fire? It looks like he did a crappy job. I wouldn’t give him more than a 10% tip, personally.
Last week I went to a fast food restaurant. I ordered my meal and paid for it at one of those new self-service kiosks. When I pressed the button to pay by credit card, it prompted me for how much of a tip I’d like to include. How about NONE? Yeah, that seems like the right amount for my having to punch in my own order on a computer touch screen, then wait 12 minutes at the counter for my order to arrive.
Recently, I’ve been invited to provide a gratuity for things I was never expected to tip for in the past. In the last month, I’ve been prompted to cough up a $weetener at a fast food drive-thru window, a shop that changes my car’s oil, the airport check-in counter, and even my physical therapist’s office.
There’s even a name for this phenomenon: Tipflation. There’s also another word for it: Tip shaming (okay, technically two words). I’m starting to feel like I’m hemorrhaging cash faster than a broken ATM. In many cases, I’m not even dealing with a human being at all, leaving me to wonder who is really on the receiving end of my generosity.
Is there anything we’re not expected to tip for anymore? I half expect to find a tip jar on my dentist’s reception desk the next time I go in for my semi-annual cleaning: “Don’t forget to tip your dental hygienist for a great job.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for showing gratitude for good service, but where do we draw the line? I’m pretty sure it’s just a matter of time before I buy a pair of sneakers on Amazon.com, and as I check out, it will suggest I enter a gratuity of 20% to 30%. I’m sure Jeff Bezos could use the extra money.
On a future vacation, at the end of my flight, in order to be allowed to exit the plane, will l be required to insert my credit card next to the screen in the seatback in front of me, to indicate the gratuity percentage I’d like to use to thank the pilot and crew for getting me safely to my destination?
The future is looking increasingly unsettling. I can picture a time not too far from now when I may receive an email from our veterinarian reminding me of our cat Zippy’s upcoming appointment. And the email explains that it’s customary to include a 20% tip to ensure proper medical care. So, if I opt not to pay a 20% tip, might Zippy have “an unfortunate accident?” I can barely afford my own healthcare, let alone tipping my cat’s vet.
Every day it seems more and more people are expecting to be tipped, just for doing their job. What’s next? Paying your heart surgeon a tip for a successful double bypass? Hope you got an extended warranty.
You may accuse me of being hyperbolic. Perhaps. But it’s only going to get worse. I’m waiting for the day when we’ll all be expected to tip the greeter at Costco for letting us enter the store. Or the electric utility if we’d like them to restore our power sooner rather than later. Or our cat sitter for taking care of our cats while we’re away. (No, wait. I actually do tip her for that. She does a great job.)
My point is, I think we’re rapidly approaching the point when we’ll be expected to tip for just about everything – even when there’s no human being involved in the transaction at all.
On a completely unrelated note, if you’ve enjoyed reading this article, please show your appreciation by leaving me a small tip. The recommended gratuity is $50, but if you’re on a limited budget, I guess $25 will do. I also accept Venmo. Please give generously, won’t you? It’s hard to pay for my upcoming European vacation on a humor writer’s salary. Just saying.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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As I get older, I realize that I don’t need a lot of “stuff” anymore. I want to slow down and enjoy the simple pleasures of life – like lying on the bow of this powerboat … off the coast of Barbados. I’d even settle for the coast of Nantucket. I’m not picky.
As I look back on my youth, I realize that I’ve matured. I’m no longer that zealously ambitious young man who craved fortune and “the good life.” If I’m being totally honest, I was overly pre-occupied with acquiring “stuff.” I wanted a nice car; a house I could be proud of. I now laugh with embarrassment thinking about this younger version of me, who wanted to “have it all.”
Now that I’m older and wiser, I appreciate that what’s important in life is not simply acquiring material possessions. My, how shallow that sounds to me now.
As I’ve aged, my values and priorities have evolved. What truly matters in the autumn of my life is the joy of developing meaningful, lasting friendships. I want to meet friends I can talk to openly and be vulnerable with, sharing my deepest, most personal hopes and fears. A sensitive, honest person who will be there for me in good times and bad. And last but not least, someone who – how can I put this politely – owns a nice boat.
Young people often talk about having “friends with benefits.” But they have it all wrong. It’s much better to have friends with boats. Now that I’m retired, it really doesn’t matter to me in the least how much stuff I possess – just so long as I have a few close friends… with fast-moving watercraft. If they had a 30-foot sailboat, I would certainly consider becoming their casual acquaintance. But I’m really looking more for a friend with a powerboat with at least 350 horsepower. I really don’t care if it’s Bayliner, a Sea Ray, or a Chris-Craft, just as long as it can reach a top-end speed of 70 mph or faster.
Recently, I met an amiable fellow. We started to hit it off. And from what I could tell, he seemed to share my political beliefs. Sadly, he only owned a dinghy, which he mainly used for crabbing. It could barely reach speeds of 10 mph. Needless to say, that’s not what I’m looking for in a friendship these days. So, I had no choice but to ghost him.
Why this obsession with friends with boats? I live on an island. My wife and I moved here to be near the water. You may be asking yourself, “Hey, if it’s so important, why don’t you buy YOUR OWN boat, Tim?” What a stupid question. Have you seen the cost of high-quality boats lately? Not to mention the cost of mooring, insuring, and refueling them.
I’m looking to make a few new guy friends. All I care about is that they’re a good person, willing to be vulnerable and open, and own a sweet-looking ride like this guy has. Woah! Is that Mont-Saint-Michel ahead? Dude, will you be my friend?
I’ve done some research and discovered that boat owners have no lives. That’s because they spend all their free time working on their boats. Here’s just a sampling of the typical tasks they do after every time they take their boat for a spin:
Top off the oil, if needed; wash the hull and deck; check the engine, battery, propeller, electrical lines, and bilge pump to ensure all components are working properly. Oh, and don’t forget to inspect the engine mount screw clamps to make sure they’re secure. While you’re at it, you might want to take a look at the water intake to be sure it’s not blocked. And be sure to flush the engine and propellers to eliminate saltwater, sand, dirt and other debris. I’ll skip the other 27 steps you need to do EVERY TIME you take your boat out, because I almost fell asleep after that last sentence.
So, no, boat ownership is not for me. Let some other sap pay $100,000 for a 40-foot cruiser. I just want to spend some quality time bonding with them… on their 40-foot cruiser – ideally while eating fresh lobster and chowing down on a tasty cheese platter and Godiva chocolates. (Not the dark chocolate, please.)
Perhaps you are that sap, I mean, fine person. If so, I want you to know that if you feel a need to drone on endlessly about how hard it is staying on top of all the regular maintenance needed to keep your boat in working order, as your new best friend, I’m willing to listen. Oh, and I’m a size LARGE, in case you need to know my lifejacket size for when you take me out water skiing.
I’m looking for a new friend. I’m not picky. I mean, it’s not like the only kind of people I seek out as friends are rich people with yachts that comfortably seat eight. Who do you think I am, anyway? No, I’m willing to keep an open mind. I’d even consider starting a friendship with someone who only owns a Jet Ski – but only if you have two of them. I’m not riding tandem behind you. Buddy, you need to give me some space.
I thought I could be friends with this guy. But I was wrong. He’s a very nice person And very smart. Just one problem. He owns a gorgeous 60-ft. sailboat. I was looking for a friend with a powerboat. Sorry, buddy. It just was never going to work out.
I’m still looking for that close friend. I know they’re out there. Perhaps you could be that special person. If you think you might like to become my friend, just email me a photo of you with your boat – or a photo of just your boat is sufficient, actually.
But perhaps I’m being a little unreasonable. After all, why should I care whether a person has a boat or not? I mean, that sounds rather superficial, doesn’t it? Okay, on further reflection, I don’t care whether or not you have a nice boat. I’m more than willing to make friends with non-boat owners – assuming they have their own private plane, that is.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Just because I’m well into my sixties, it doesn’t mean I’m old. I am up to date with technology. I’d never use a rotary phone like this – mainly because the numbers are too small for me to read anymore.
Dear People Under Forty,
As a person who is now officially a “senior citizen” (I had my Medicare birthday four years ago), I have a small request. Whenever we’re together could you please refrain from inserting into our conversation the phrase “at your age?” When you say these words, what we people in our sixties hear is, “Dude, I can’t believe how old you are, not to mention frail, out of touch, mentally incompetent, and likely to tip over at any moment. Do you need to go pee?”
It’s true, I can no longer legally call myself middle-aged. But no, my kids aren’t currently scoping out nursing homes in my area – not yet anyway. I still play racquetball, tennis, and pickleball (although, admittedly I’ve never played any of them very well). I’m still totally capable of driving, building a deck, and setting up a wireless network in our house – okay, my wife just pointed out that perhaps I should just stick with the part about still being able to drive, in order to sound credible.
You don’t have to explain what every trendy new slang term means. I know what “Karen” and “Bye Felicia” mean. And when you roll your eyes, smirk, and say to me, “Okay Boomer,” I get the dismissive dig. I may not be totally woke, but I’m not in a coma, okay?I still use the Internet daily and have even written about the threat of AI. I still text, although on principle, I insist on using proper punctuation. (I confess I have no idea what the octopus emoji means.)
You don’t need to slow down your speech – or TALK LOUDER. My hearing is fine (even if my audiologist says I’ll probably need hearing aids in three years).
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard younger people make reference to “at your age” in their conversations with me – mainly because my memory isn’t what it used to be. I played pickleball the other day. I lunged for a shot and lost my balance briefly. My partner, a young guy around 35, pulled me aside and counseled me, “Tim, at your age, why not let those shots go. You don’t want to hurt yourself.” I just smiled and said, “Thanks for your concern.” There was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’d just pulled my calf muscle.
At my last annual physical, I told my doctor of my plans to ski again this winter. He looked at my knees, both of which underwent total knee replacement surgery three years ago, and he said, “Tim, at your age, I’m not sure it’s wise to keep skiing, given the stress it puts on your knees.” Of course, most of my friends have been suggesting for years that I give up the sport, but only because they all agree I’ve never been a very good skier and I keep holding them back.
The other week, I was pushing a wheelbarrow heavily loaded with dirt up a steep incline in my backyard. A well-intentioned neighbor in his early forties noticed me straining under the weight. He said, “Hey, Jonesy, are you sure you should be pushing something that heavy at your age? Here, let me get that for you” And only because I didn’t want to offend him after his kind neighborly gesture, I reluctantly agreed to let him take over and push that load up the incline for me – along with the next 20 wheelbarrow loads. Hey, I’m lazy, not stupid.
Not long ago, I bought a gas grill at the hardware store. The sales clerk, who could not have been more than 25, informed me it takes about an hour to assemble. Then he added, “For $25, we can assemble it for you. At your age, perhaps you have better things to do with your time.” Because I’m a mature, emotionally secure man, I chose to ignore his subtle insinuation that I was too old and feeble to assemble it myself. Nevertheless, I decided to pay the $25 to have them assemble the grill, because, frankly, at my age, I have better things to do with my time.
People have often told me in recent years, “Tim, you still look good for your age.” What they’re really saying is, “Tim, if you were middle-aged, I’d say you look terrible. But seeing as you’re an old guy, you’re not looking so bad. I mean, congrats on still having most of your hair and teeth.” Um, thanks for the compliment, I guess?
I’m sure that in most cases, these younger people are just trying to be gracious or helpful. They’re probably concerned that people my age may need a little assistance or perhaps we’ve lost a step mentally and may not catch on quite as quickly as we used to. But the fact is most people in their sixties are far healthier and more mentally and physically fit than younger people realize. Did you know that George Clooney is 62? Kevin Costner is 68. Pierce Brosnan is 70. They’re all studs. And they’re all way better dressers than I am. I’m not sure what my point was. Oh right. Being over sixty doesn’t mean you’re slowing down. We have a lot to live for – unless your name is Rudy Giuliani, in which case, yeah, it would suck to be old like you.
L to R: George Clooney (age 62), Kevin Costner (68), and Pierce Brosnan (70). All these men are well over sixty but they’re all still vibrant, handsome, and sexy. And my wife would trade me in for any one of them in a heartbeat.
Let me ask you a question, my millennial friends. How would you like it if I routinely made comments to you like, “Hey, at your age, you might want to think about setting aside some money for a down payment on a house rather than putting it all into the latest cryptocurrency fad.” Or maybe, “At your age, perhaps you should think twice about getting into that car and driving, given the six beers you’ve consumed in the past two hours.”
Just something to think about… that is, if you’d like to have a shot at surviving until you arrive at my age.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Every year it’s the same list of New Year’s Resolutions. Lose weight, exercise more, cut out sugar, be nice to my wife. And every year, I give up – usually by National Bird Day (observed each January 5th) So, this year, I’ve decided, if I’m going to fail, why not shoot for the moon. Go big or go home.
Ah, the dawn of a new year, a time when gyms are filled to capacity with resolution-makers who, let’s be honest, will probably give up on their newfound commitment to fitness faster than you can say “cheeseburger.” I thought about it. Why limit myself to mundane resolutions like losing weight or eating more vegetables or saving money, which we all know are goals I’m almost certain to bail on by National Chocolate-Covered Cherry Day? (Yes, that’s an actual holiday, observed every year on January 3rd.)
So, I’ve decided, if I’m going to draft a list of goals I am sure to fail at achieving, why not set my sights on ridiculously lofty goals that are so absurdly unreachable my friends will be quietly asking each other if they should stage an intervention.
In the spirit of chasing the impossible dream, here are some resolutions I just came up with as I was flossing for the first time in months this morning (another new year’s resolution I just started which I’m pretty sure I’ll give up on by National Whipped Cream Day, on the 5th of January). Feel free to try out some of these resolutions yourself. If you share these with your friends, I’m confident you’ll be the talk of the neighborhood – even if that talk is mostly just confused head-shaking and worrisome murmurs about your loose grip on reality.
Resolution #1: Disprove the Existence of Mars
Sure, scientists and astronomers might claim that Mars is a real, tangible planet in our solar system, but who are they to tell us what to believe? Like we EVER landed a man on the moon. Yeah, right! Just because we all learned about Mars as one of the planets back in 7th grade – and the fact that you can see it in the night sky – doesn’t prove it exists – any more than the claim that some broccoli tastes good. Now that’s a total hoax.
This year, I resolve to single-handedly disprove the existence of Mars – and maybe Halley’s Comet while I’m at it. Armed with a telescope I bought on Amazon and a copy of Photoshop, I’ll present a compelling case that what we’ve been calling “Mars” is actually just a cleverly staged Hollywood set two blocks west of the Denny’s on Hollywood Boulevard. Get ready to rewrite thousands of high school science textbooks, McGraw Hill.
#2: Make At Least Three New Robot Friends
Sure, my current human friends are great, but after a while, they can get so annoying – especially when they start talking about all their bodily parts that are starting to fail. If I hear one more cataract surgery story, I think I will lose it. I think my energy will be better spent this year on making robot friends, because, let’s face it, in six months they will all become our overlords, thanks to AI.
Imagine the conversations my robot pals and I could have – discussing the intricacies of artificial intelligence, debating which Terminator movie was the best (IMHO, Terminator 2: Judgment Day wins hands down) and learning exactly how and when I will become their eventual human slave puppet.
In 2024, one of my resolutions is to make new friends, like this dude. After all, eventually, as Artificial Intelligence gets increasingly sophisticated, it’s just a matter of time before robots like this guy will rule the world. I figure, might as well start getting on their good side now, while I still have time.
#3: Convince Everyone I’m the Rightful King of Denmark
Why should I settle for being just another face in the crowd when, honestly, I’d be much happier retaking the throne of Denmark? My resolution will require a few weeks practicing my Danish on Babbel and taking a crash course in Danish history – I just read that Denmark is the longest uninterrupted monarchy in Europe. Who knew?
Then I’ll need to craft an elaborate backstory involving a secret twin brother, who I’ll call Henrik – unless you think the name Lars is more believable – who stole my birthright. I will proclaim that henceforth all Danes must address me by saying, “Hail to the King!” – I mean “Hils Kongen” (since I suspect most Danes prefer to speak Danish). I will award myself bonus points if I can get everyone to bow (or curtsy) when I enter the room – assuming the security detail grants me access to my Palace. I think they will. I’m told I have a friendly smile that disarms people.
#4: Learn to Speak Whale
Move over, Dory! This year, I’m resolving to master the art of speaking whale. While marine biologists might scoff at the idea that whales have a sophisticated language, I firmly believe that if I’m allowed a sufficient amount of practice, positive encouragement, and bait fish as a reward, I can become fluent in whale-speak in weeks. Who knows, maybe I’ll even land a job as a whale translator if they ever decide to make a 4thFree Willy sequel.
#5: Time Travel Back to Prevent Lincoln’s Assassination
Why settle for mundane time management goals when I can set a target for mastering the ultimate time-management challenge: time travel? This year, I am boldly declaring my intention to hop into a makeshift time machine I will construct from parts from a 1982 DeLorean and a sextant from a 100-year-old British three-mast schooner. Then I’ll set my time travel coordinates for Ford’s Theatre, April 14, 1865.
I’ll hide behind the curtains and shoot John Wilkes Booth, thereby saving Abraham Lincoln from his fateful encounter with a bullet and re-writing history. Sure, it might create a few wrinkles in the space-time continuum, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I changed the destiny of our nation forever and forced countless scholars to rewrite their treatises on Lincoln’s final days.
Here I am working on my time travel machine. I figure sooner or later someone will figure it out. Why not me? If I succeed, I plan to save Lincoln from assassination, prevent the invention of the nuclear bomb, and stop whoever had the lame idea to create the fidget spinner. Such an annoying gadget. Seriously.
I just hope I figure out how to get back safely to the present. I’d hate it if they put me on trial for the murder of John Wilkes Booth and I ended up having to serve the rest of my life in prison – never able to enjoy a Dominos Meat Lovers pizza again – oh, or see my kids. That, too.
So, go ahead. Make your resolution to lose 15 pounds – for the 12th year in a row – or to finally learn how to play guitar or save $500 a month – like you’ve never once done since you became a parent. While you’re working on your newfound commitment to eat more green vegetables and give up ice cream, I’ll be hard at work learning whale-speak, making new robot friends, and saving our country’s greatest president from an assassin’s plot.
We both know we will both fail miserably. But I will have far more interesting stories to tell about my efforts to achieve my lofty goals – especially when my family members ask me to review my list during a mental health evaluation with a team of psychiatric professionals. I’m not worried. Maybe they can help restore me to the throne of Denmark.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When I reached the age of 60, my body started requiring several new replacement parts. So, recently, I’ve endured some of the unique joys of aging: knee replacement surgery, colonoscopies, and most recently, cataract surgery. And they call these the Golden Years? Yeah, right!
I’ve never claimed to be the bravest man in the world. I never served in combat zones like both my parents did. That said, I’d like to point out I did attend an all-boys’ military school (grades 7 – 12) in which I had to march with a gun in several parades. So, that’s on par with serving in ‘Nam or Iraq, don’t you think?
I’m pretty sure I’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize in Courage. (Or is it the Nobel Prize? I always get those two confused.) For decades, I’ve struggled with two longstanding crippling phobias. First, there’s my chronic fear of snakes. If you want to know why, just read my article called I HATE SNAKES.
But my single greatest fear is my morbid anxiety about anything – or anyone – possibly slicing into one of my eyeballs. Okay, make that my second greatest fear. I just remembered my terrifying fear that Trump might actually get re-elected for a second term. But a close second has to be my eyeball phobia. In fact, just typing the word “eyeball” makes me a little queasy.
How severe is my phobia? I’ve worn glasses for the past 25 years. In all that time not once did I ever consider switching to contacts. Just the thought of peeling contact lenses off my eyes grosses me out. To this day, I still can’t go anywhere near a pier where people are fishing for fear someone will cast their line and somehow hook my eyeball.
Recently, it all came to a head – make that an eyeball. That’s because ten years ago, my ophthalmologist told me I had early stage cataracts in both eyes. Eventually I was going to require surgery. If you’re curious as to exactly what happens during cataract surgery, don’t ask me. Go look it up yourself. I don’t have the stomach to read the graphic details of what actually happens during this procedure. I’d probably faint before I reached the third paragraph.
On the cover of the eyecare firm’s brochure it shows a smiling older woman supposedly happy to have regained her youthful eyesight. But tucked away towards the far back is a section with the header “MAJOR RISKS OF CATARACT SURGERY” (these exact words). These include swelling, infection, double vision, droopy eyelids, something called ghost images – the list of possible adverse side effects and complications goes on for several paragraphs. And then the copy sneaks in at the end, “and in rare instances, blindness or even death.” Holy crap! What did I just sign up for?
I am so squeamish about anything dealing with my eyes that I even have trouble looking at a Magic 8 Ball toy – because it reminds me too much of a human eyeball. I know, something’s wrong with me.
For weeks leading up to my surgery, several supportive friends told me they’d had the same procedure, that it was a breeze, and how glad they are that they did it. I learned the typical cataract surgery only takes 20 to 45 minutes – so, roughly the same amount of time it takes Domino’s to deliver my cheese-stuffed pizza.
I want to thank all the kind people who gave me calming words of encouragement. This list, however, does NOT include my racquetball buddy Raymond, who told me – and I’m not making this up – “I hope your doctor isn’t Dr. Witherspoon. He lost his license after he caused several people to go blind as a result of his botched surgeries.” Raymond decided he’d share this traumatizing story precisely one day before I went in for my operation. Thanks, buddy.
Here’s a fun fact sure to keep you awake at night if you’re contemplating cataract surgery: You’re CONSCIOUS during the entire procedure as they slice into your eyeball. Well, sort of. You’re sedated, but technically you’re still awake. That’s because they need to keep you conscious in order to ask you important questions like, “Are you feeling any pain?” and “Which eye did you want us to remove today?” and “Did you remember to sign the liability release form when you checked in today in the off chance Dr. Witherspoon is still hungover and things take a turn for the worse during the procedure?” At least that’s what Raymond told me.
Every year since that initial diagnosis, my eye doctor has reminded me the dreaded day was coming. Last week, after ten years, that frightful day finally arrived. I went in for cataract surgery on my right eye. And in two weeks – assuming I haven’t gone blind, died, or fled the area in a panic – I’m scheduled to go in for the other eye.
You should see what I did to the other guy! Uh, no, not really. This is a selfie I took the next morning after my cataract surgery. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking: “Tim, I’ve never seen you look better.” Um, thanks.
Thankfully, they drugged me up so much that I had no idea what was going on during my procedure. But just to be on the safe side, as they prepped me, I described my extreme anxiety to the attending anesthesiologist and asked her to administer the maximum “knockout” dosage medically permitted. If it might accidentally cause me to lose my memory of all events that occurred since the year 2016, I told her I was totally okay with that.
I would now like to describe in gory, graphic detail exactly what they did to me in that operating room… but I can’t. Because I don’t remember a thing. Later that day, other than a very mild achiness around my eye, I felt totally fine. The doctor was a miracle worker.
He told me afterwards that I should not lift anything over 25 pounds or extend any significant physical effort for the next two weeks. Of course, I relayed to my wife that the doctor said to avoid any unpleasant physical labor for the next six months. So, it looks like this husband just got out of having to change the cat litter boxes and take out the trash for the foreseeable future – out of an abundance of precaution, mind you.
I just emailed my ophthalmologist to ask him if he could write a letter indicating it’s also not medically safe for me to empty the dishwasher, rake the leaves, make the bed, or assemble the gas grill during this time. I’d just hate for anything to set back my recovery.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
