I was puttering around in the basement the other day when I noticed the dehumidifier needed dumping. It was another chore I had neglected so, well, OK, just do it, I thought.

And I did. Along the way, I slithered through a gaggle of old chairs, skirted the drawing table I bought for a son who no longer lives in my home, and bent over.

Now, the slithering and skirting is not a problem, but bending over, or better yet, straightening up, can be a chore. Anyhoo, I pulled the reservoir from the dehumidifier without spilling even a drop and walked to the door.

You would think opening a door and dumping a bucket of water outside would be a simple chore, but, you know, when you hit the bottom of the eighth inning, some things are a problem,  like shoving the screen door open without banging my right arm against the other door.

Ouch, I said. Maybe I used another expression, as it sort of stung. Then, after I reinstalled the reservoir in the dehumidifier, I noticed a golf ball-sized red mark on my arm.

As my birthdays seem to race past the calendar faster than Mario Andretti chasing A.J. Foyt on a dirt track, so did the golf ball-sized red mark as it turned deep purple.

I guess it is part of the aging process. My skin is not as resilient as it once was. And the heavily advertised blood thinner the VA doc wants me to swallow twice a day propels the blood to slither under the skin, creating the aforementioned purple Titleist-sized bruise.
As we age, negotiating stairs becomes a chore. It demands caution and common sense. It requires looking down at the treads and holding on to the railing. The last thing you want to do is slip and do a swan dive down a dozen stairs. That could cause a problem or worse.

It is just another joy Mother Nature visited upon me (and you, dear reader?) as the calendar turns over and over and over.

Each morning, I wake up wondering which bodily function will slow down or disappear. Sometimes, things just vanish. Memories develop gaps in sentences and paragraphs. Names of friends and well-known figures sometimes disappear. My typing skills, never my long suit, can be problematic.

And walking, something I loved to do, especially when chasing a Titleist with a golf bag slung over my shoulder, has become a chore. Walking now finds me bent over and experiencing a sharp pain in my lower back.

As I ramble on about my condition, I know these complaints are signs of the dread, and always fatal disease known as O.L.D.

Watching the TV news, I thought I saw a golf ball-sized bruise on the right or left hand of the president. As he exits Air Force One, he seems bent over as he walks down the mobile stairs. And he always hangs on to the railing. His suits don’t seem to fit his form as well as they used to.

He has the toughest job in the world, bar none. And he is 79. The official White House physician says he is in good health, and I hope he is. But, I know, that White House physicians are known to tell little white lies about their famous patients. And, I suppose even my good MAGA friends know that 79 is not prime time for anyone, no matter what office he presides over. At 79, things just don’t work as well as they did a year or two ago.

So what does this mean for us all? Do we want Gov. Janet Mills, who will be 78 on her next birthday, to challenge Sen. Susan Collins, who is 72, for a seat in the U.S. Senate?

More to the point, is Father Time starting to catch up with the president, like he did with former President Joe Biden, who froze during a nationally televised debate?

And if something should happen to the president, God forbid, who takes over? I know there is a vice president, but does he have the national and world clout that the president has? I fear that might lead to a major league political food fight.

The world and our nation are in flux. We have major league wars in Europe and the Middle East, the National Guard troops are in major cities, tariffs, a CDC in chaos, and a cabinet filled with second-string, kowtowing, yes men/women. And we have the “loyal opposition” Democrats flailing around trying to find themselves. I fear our beloved nation could be heading for a crisis that will need grown-ups on all sides to handle.

But that is for another column and another time. My washing machine just beeped, and it is time to stuff a load into the dryer. And that, I can still do.

I hope you all had a good summer. Happy Labor Day.