Cynthia Reugh: If these are my golden years, I’ll take the bronze ones

I recently rang in 2025 by turning the big 6-0. That equals 3,120 weeks, 21,900 days or 525,600 hours. A milestone? Hardly. More a reminder that I need to begin thinking about selecting my tombstone.

In the year of 1965 when I was born, the Beatles played Shea Stadium in New York. “Lost in Space” and “I Dream of Jeannie” debuted on television in black and white. Milk was delivered to homes in glass bottles. Cool Whip, Top Ramen, “Star Wars” and the Seattle Mariners did not exist. Neither did Riverfront Park … those grainy images of the former Expo ’ 74 site are a sad reminder of my own impending mortality.

There is nothing golden about this journey.

Decades past a midlife crisis, I’ve reached the geriatric meltdown phase. An attractive head-turner in college, these days I rarely garner a glance from any male younger than Dick Van Dyke. Faint wrinkles which were barely noticeable at 50 have now carved deep crevices into my once-flawless complexion. A pair of ugly lines which resemble the number 11 cemented firmly between my eyebrows like popsicle sticks. Retinol. Collagen. Facial tape. I’ve tried them all, but those suckers aren’t budging.

Oh, how I wish I had worn sunscreen!

My mature facial road map is now starting to rival that of Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards. I considered Botox but was afraid it would freeze my entire forehead or leave my face shimmering like a well-polished billiard ball. Attempts to capture a selfie free from liver spots and eye bags are futile at best. Family pictures and FaceTime, completely out of the question.

Age-related issues are nothing new to me.

I married late in life and popped out my last kiddo at 42. Menopause struck before I had finished setting up the Diaper Genie. No part of my body was spared. Osteopenia. Migraines. Gut issues … that intestinal tract a firecracker of flatulent activity. Nasty hot flashes left me drenched in a sticky sweat each time the TV weather guy said “warming trend.” One online website suggested I carry a portable fan around with me. Can you imagine that at Churchill’s Steakhouse? “I’ll take the filet mignon, medium rare … Oh, wait just a second while I turn on my fan.”

While I scheduled bone density tests and colonoscopies, technology exploded.

Somewhere along this lengthy trek, I missed a few operating updates. Smartphones. Smart tablets. Smart televisions. Does that mean I’m stupid if I can’t run them? While my children tweeted, tapped and Snapchatted with ease, I struggled to turn on that blasted iPhone flashlight. With my motherboard completely overloaded, I was simply out of cerebral space to deal with one more gadget that swiped, spoke in a sultry voice or required a password. Those parental controls I spent hours installing on devices removed in a matter of minutes by my tech-savvy kids. It all went downhill from there.

That machinery sure isn’t what it used to be.

Life has become a prescription for misery. Glasses for reading. Glasses for distance. My luscious golden locks which once challenged those of Farrah Fawcett have now been replaced by thin strands of gray. They sprout from my scalp quicker than new grass in springtime. Ordinary objects have become lethal hazards. Car trunks. Stairs. Table corners … even our cat, Sunny, her furry mass a nasty tripping obstacle as she lies outstretched on the floor purring content in the safety net of her own nine lives. Once a distance runner, my prehistoric skeleton now snaps, crackles and pops like a freshly milked bowl of Rice Krispies at the slightest twitch.

Worst of all, vicious checkers tack on that senior discount without asking my age.

It seems like just yesterday when I was hooping it up to “Mony Mony” at a Pullman watering hole. Nowadays, a rousing evening begins with a Gas-X and ends with “Wheel of Fortune.” As I admire Vanna White’s smooth skin and gorgeous hair, youthful men and women in commercial breaks promise relief from irritable bowel syndrome and other elderly maladies with drugs whose names I can’t pronounce. Those carefree seniors skipping through fields as cheerful music plays in the background. My hopes for a quick fix extinguished when the announcer rattles off a list of potential side effects that include vomiting and diarrhea at dizzying speed.

There is no free lunch on this over the hill expedition.

Embrace it? I detest it. I would gladly swap a few of my remaining days for an opportunity to transport back into the 1970s and stroll through the aisles at Newberry’s or purchase a glass of soda water for 2 cents at Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour. For now, I’m looking ahead to Medicare and Social Security … sure hope I can figure out how to submit those online applications.