I hope I’m not the Zayde that, at my grandchildren’s bar and bat mitzvahs or at their weddings, you hear about. As in, “I know Zayde is looking down, smiling and happy for us.” Better than “Zayde is looking up,” but still not great.
Neither do I want to be the Zayde in agonizing pain, with brain cells that only register 1976 and 2014, while some nurse is lifting me into my shower seat to be sprayed down like a Devil’s Island prisoner being deloused.
It’s possible one or both of those are in my cards. Remember, when it comes to cards, the house always wins. The day comes when we all must cash in our lucky chips. God knows I’ve had my share of lucky chips.
At 73, I know I am on a slippery slope that’s getting slipperier. No matter how many Peloton rides or 40-minute 4.5 treadmill walks, it’s a losing battle. It’s the Angel of Death’s favorite pastime, watching me try to stay young and beat the system.
It wasn’t until late into my 50s that I realized how blessed I was as a young boy. At 16, my body responded to anything I asked it to do — running, jumping, throwing a ball, swinging a bat. I never got seriously hurt even once. When I was sick, I got better in the blink of an eye. To a young boy, thinking about sex and playing touch tackle was all the antidepressants we needed.
My physical decline began over 30 years ago when I slipped two discs in my back. I would like to tell you it happened when I went back for a third helping at an orgy. But the truth is, a rabbi, during Rosh Hashanah services, asked me to help him move a podium. I lifted wrong and bingo. No good mitzvah goes unpunished.
Since then, little by little, my once-beautiful suitcase for my soul is in a state of slow decay and in need of constant repair. Banana-colored toenails, hair growing in my ears and out of my nose, and skin tags growing faster than a pothos plant. My epidermis is drying out like a sponge left in the Death Valley summer sun.
For most of us, God works slowly and methodically. It isn’t one day you wake up, and your face looks like seeded rye bread. The changes are slow and steady. I have been married for over 36 years. If we had gone to bed on our wedding night and I woke the next morning looking like I do now, she would have had a stroke.
Years ago, I was at LA Fitness and saw an old man, probably in his late 80s, drop his towel to put on his shorts. No, he was not on the chin-up bar at the time. His backside looked like small rippling ocean waves, and his front a tired punching bag in need of air. I know if I live long enough, that’s my future, and it frightens me.
I became a grandparent around the time I started thinking about how much longer I have left to live. Listen up, young people. Have children sooner rather than later. You will bring immeasurable joy to your parents and even the score for all the rotten things you did growing up.
To feel young, I’m keeping busy and trying to take care of myself as best I can. But we know the secret — that for most of us my age, the fuse has been lit, and it’s a short one. I’ve been saved twice, to my knowledge, by modern medicine, and so have a few of my family members. For this, I am most grateful and thank God and my doctors.
My new role model is a man I knew who, when he turned 90, gave up trying to stay healthy and only ate hot dogs with mustard and French fries, and drank Coke every meal. He lived three more years and died a happy man. He should have been buried in a hot dog bun-shaped coffin.
If I reach 90, unless my family steps in, I plan to finish myself off with pastrami, hot dogs, baked beans, and Dr. Browns Cel-Ray soda. Until then, I’ll remain vegan and eat my pea soup and low-sodium saltines.
Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer and hosts, along with Danny Lobell, the “We Think It’s Funny” podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”
