As I approach the second year of my eighth decade (for you Auburn graduates, that means I’m turning 70),” I’ve become a bit sensitive, especially when I look in the mirror. The mirror, you see, is not my friend.
As I stare, post shower, at what I have become, I am reminded of an article I read just last week concerning Prince William. William, you see, is the heir apparent, and is therefore subject to the scrutiny of the paparazzi as well as the rest of the world.
We all have memories of those royal boys, William and Harry, following their mother’s casket through the streets of London. I remember being amazed at how much William looked like his late mother, Diana. I’m not sure where Harry came from, but William was a dead ringer.
We have watched him grow and mature, not really causing near the controversy (nor having as much fun) as his “red-headed stepchild” of a brother, Harry. William has much bigger shoes to fill, for one day he will be the sovereign.
Over the years, William has changed a bit. He has lost much of his hair (he’s the heir apparent, not the hair apparent.) That’s not such a tragedy in this age of shaved heads — but he has, also developed what some in the media call a “dad bod.”
I am personally offended by that remark, probably because I have gone way past the point of no return regarding my physical appearance. I only wish I still had a dad bod.”
They say you can’t tell much about your physical fitness without a bit of courage. Again, I’m offended, but wanted to put my body to the test so I stripped down to my birthday suit and did a few jumping jacks in front of a full-length mirror. After about four, not only was I out of breath, but I had seen enough. I no longer have a dad bod. I now have a “granddad bod.”
In fact, from some angles and in just the right light, I might even have what one would consider a “grandma bod.” With no negative inference to my sainted grandmothers, by the time I came along, most everything on their bodies had gone south. Both were a bit chunky and both carried a body mass index that would brand them overweight. They weren’t fat, they were just, well, grandmothers.
I try to go to exercise three times a week, although I’m not as regular as I could be. A recent fall down our staircase, head-first and on my back, kept me away for a couple of weeks, but I am going to get better at it, especially in light of my recent experiment as noted above.
Right now, as I munch on a piece of heavily buttered cranberry walnut bread, I’m planning my strategy. First, as stated, I need to get back to exercising. Not only do I feel better, I don’t gain weight as fast when I’m working out. Exercise, at least for me, is not an effective way to lose weight, it just makes me so tired and achy, I don’t feel like lifting my fork.
I want to want to exercise. I also need to spend more time at our place on Panama City Beach, for on that lovely stretch of sugar sand can be found a vast array of bodies that will put the fear of fat into you. Yes, fun seekers, if you think you look bad in a bathing suit, just pull one on and venture on down to the Redneck Riviera where you will almost always find someone who will make you feel better about yourself. King-sized bodies in micro-sized bathing suits are the fare of the day. Frankly I think there should be a law against such displays, but I just might wind up in the slammer myself.
And so, on Sept. 29, 2018, I’ll trudge over that imaginary barrier that prevents youth from crossing. I will be old. No longer young or middle-aged, fun seekers, I will be old.
And, as they say down south, getting old sure beats the alternative.

Boyce (Stick) Miller lives in Americus. Contact him at stickmiller@gmail.com