A young handsome and fit man, may be referred to as a “hunk”. Most often by women. This reduces the worth of a person, their intellect, their heart and soul, to trivialities, compared to their physical appearance. In other words, the are merely a piece of meat. Fresh steak on a golden platter. Of course that’s better than how I’m looked at, liverwurst on a saltine cracker.
As a man ages he goes from “Hunk”, “Stud”, “Beefcake”, etc., to Old Geezer, Old Codger, Old Fogey,and the ever popular, Old Fart. Not the kind of phrases a man hopes to hear about himself. But what exactly do these words mean? I decided to research them.
What Is a”Geezer”? In the U.K. “Geezer means: A guy, a bloke, a person in general. The British equivalent of the American slang word “dude”. Nice, I can take that. In the U.S. it means: An old man, particularly one who is either cranky or eccentric. A rather derogatory term. It’s believed to have been derived from the word “guise”. So it means a persons’ appearance. Ok, that’s not too bad. Although my guise is getting ragged.
What is a “codger”? I found two definitions that may be the origin of this phrase. One dictionary said it meant: an eccentric man, especially one who is old. Not bad. I can live with that. Another source claimed it meant: an old person. Derives from coffin dodger Coffin dodger?!! I assume that describes most people. I guess when you get older people start to marvel you’re still around. That’s a bit insulting. But it beats the alternative.
What is a “fogey”? My first source said: an extremely fussy, old-fashioned, or conservative person. Oh boy, that’s getting close to home. My second source said:Fogey/fogy /fougi/ sl. (early 18C+, orig. Scot) old-fashioned, stuck-in-the mud. Person with old fashioned ideas which he is unwilling to change. A similar meaning. It has Scottish origins. Stuck in the mud? I thought the phrase was “stick in the mud.” I guess stuck in the mud makes more sense. Although being a stick in the mud is pretty useless and trivial.
What is an “Old Fart”. Do I really need to look this one up? I think not. However I think this is less insulting than you may think at first hearing. Now pardon me for the direction this article has to go. But it is necessary to sniff out the truth of this phrase. Even if the result stinks. I think it’s better to be an old fart than a young fart. Think about it. I know you don’t want to, but this will be over soon. Now a young fresh fart, is potent, powerful, basically disgusting. But an old fart, is fading, not as pungent, won’t be lingering as long, soon to be a memory. So while neither is a situation for pleasant thoughts, better to have the one that will soon be gone. Not that a person wants to think of themselves as soon to be gone. But we never know when when our time is up. At least the old fart isn’t promising you a long unpleasant experience.
I guess none of these phrases are too bad or insulting. It could be worse. I could be called an old studly hunk of beefcake, but with young farts.
For the second time in two months our refrigerator was no longer keeping things cool. The freezer was working great. Too great. There was a buildup of ice along it’s inside back wall. We had defrosted it just two months ago. Perhaps not thorough enough. So we decided to give it one more defrost, and the next time it fails, get the refrigerator replaced. Did I mention this is a frost free refrigerator. So obviously there is a problem. Although I don’t think it’s leaking refrigerant. Perhaps it is because we pack every inch of the freezer with food. The same philosophy I have towards my body. But back to the fridge. Fortunately the weather outside was a balmy 15 degrees fahrenheit. So it would be easy to keep the food cold while we engage in defrosting. I arose early and emptied the refrigerated contents into a cooler and a plastic storage box and placed them outside. For the rest of the day I had the suburban hillbilly look, as the neighbors observed my reaching out my front door into a box, every time I needed some milk. Hours went by and the inevitable flood of water from the melting ice covered the kitchen floor. This was anticipated. But well placed towels were in strategic locations to catch the water, and they were neither well placed or strategic enough. But it did result in getting the kitchen floor clean. As evening wore on we thought that the process was taking too long. We didn’t want to go a second day eating from a box outside. Nor did we want to leave food outside all night. This only attracts gypsies, hobos and racoons. Or at least some strange guy named Bob. So we decided to speed the process along. Now the last time we defrosted we didn’t wait long enough for all the ice wedged deep inside the refrigerator to completely melt. My wife suggested we take a hair dryer and aim it at the spots where we knew (and could still see) the ice. So I did. Now many years earlier when I had gotten my new tennis shoes soaking wet, my wife suggested I put them in the microwave for a minute to help dry them. So I did. I melted my shoes. At least the soles. So just as Adam follows Eves’ suggestions, things don’t always turn out as we expect. Back to the fridge. Aiming the hair dryer at the ice was proving effective at melting the ice. But it was taking a long time. After a while my wife said instead of just holding the hair dryer, maybe I could sit it on something, close the door and let the built up heat melt the ice. Ok. I placed the hair dryer on low, set it in a bread pan, and pointed the nozzle towards the the back of the freezer. I would check on it every couple of minutes. The flow of water from under the fridge increased so it was working. My wife said try to shut the door and let the heat build up, and keep checking to make sure it’s ok. “Duh..ok” I said. So I did. I’d check every few minutes and everything seemed to be working as planned. The freezer got warmer. The ice was melting. It really was getting warmer. It even had a bit of a smell from the heat. Oh well I’ll check again in a few minutes. A few minutes later I checked. It was really hot in the freezer. I turned the dryer off. The insides of the freezer now had bubbles all over it. Tiny bubbles. Part of one side looked like a lava flow. Oh look a stalagmite. Yes we melted our freezer. My wife was horrified. It did look like something from a horror movie. It looked like somewhere a hideous creature would store its’ ice cream. I pushed on the bubbles and was able to flatten most of them. Now the freezer was covered in melted circles. And stalagmites and lava flows. It took another two hours for the freezer to cool. Then we turned it on. No leaks of refrigerant. It worked. The freezer worked. The refrigerator worked. We had success. And a freezer fit for a zombie movie. Next time we’re getting another refrigerator.
At the risk of losing my fanbase of young adoring women, I have a confession to make. Next month (at the time of this writing) I will turn sixty-one years old. I hear the stampede of young women heading for the door now. Well maybe not a stampede but I hear footsteps. Ok maybe that’s not footsteps I hear. I think it’s a drip from my leaking faucet. No matter, I’m more than just an aging face. I’m an aging body too. At this age I fit into two categories. I’m a very young old man and a very old young man. It depends who is looking at me. Which usually is not many. Of course maturity is not part of the equation. It varies in me from subject to subject. Whenever there is physical labor involved I pull the age card. “I’m too old for this! Oh my aching bones!” etc, etc. Then I go play computer games or watch shows about my old favorite comic book heroes. When you’re two years old, a year is half your life. When you’re sixty, assuming you live to be 100, then a year is only 1/60th. Time seems to speed up. When you look at me you see contrails and warped space. Everything seems like it happened yesterday. Except eating and sleeping. I always look forward to that. I was thinking about writing a humorous blog on aging. Start it while I’m still a young oldie and chronicle my funny experiences with growing old. I wonder if this has already been overdone. I am quite sure there are endless articles on the funny life adventures of the youth challenged. This is the sort of thing people like to read. Who wants to read continuous horror stories about body parts going out of warranty? I suppose I could write those kind of stories for “Gloomy Old Fart Weekly”, but I’d rather concentrate on the funny. I probably could start “Gloomy Old Fart Weekly” and make a fortune. There seems to be a big market for the depressing. Naw. I’ll stick to my unintentional depressing writing style instead. You may notice when I write I sometimes ramble. That may or may not have anything to do with the fact the I used to ride in my parents Rambler as a boy. If you remember Ramblers, then how are you doing old timer? But I digress. I guess I’m writing this because I wanted to vent. That happens to me a lot after eating certain foods. This year I’m not expecting much of a birthday celebration. Sixty-one is not a milestone like sixty. Last year we made a life size statue of me from the wax of my birthday cake candles. This year I expect a wrapped and bowed, shiny box of indifference. Just like every other year. But that’s ok. I shouldn’t expect anyone to make a fuss because I’m not dead yet. On the other hand when they finally do make the fuss I’ll miss the party. Oh well, thanks for letting me vent. You might want to open a window.