Guest column: they both sat on the curb and cried

“WHY ARE YOUR CRYING?” the elderly man said to a little kid who was sitting on the curb weeping.

“Because I can’t do what the big boys do,” he sobbed.

The old man thought for a minute, and then sat down next to him and began crying also.

The old and the young seem to have one thing in common — neither one is satisfied with the age they are. The old want to be younger and the young want to be older. There has to be some place in between that’s just right, but what that ideal age is, I have no idea.

JUST A FEW DAYS AFTER HE turned 5, my great-grandson Roman started telling people he was 5½.

I can remember once going to Silver Springs in Florida. We were in line to purchase tickets and in front of us was a young boy and his parents. Age 5 and under got in free, and when the father got to the ticket booth and was asked how old the boy was, he replied, “5.”

“Daddy said I’m only 5,” the youngster loudly pitched a fit, “and I’m 6, I’m 6!!!” The boy was highly insulted at this underestimation, and let the world know it. I remember how the father looked like he wished he could sink through the concrete.

THIS CONFLICT BETWEEN ECONOMICS and pride becomes more of a factor as youngsters get a little older. (And also when you reach the senior citizen discount age.) When we were 14, my buddy Diz Miller and I both looked younger. So we were still buying 12-and-under tickets when we went to the movies. I recall it being quite demeaning, but it was Depression time and age 12 got in for 10 cents rather than 35 cents. This worked well until one day when the ticket taker suspiciously asked Diz how old he was. “Twelve,” said Diz. “What year were you born?” Diz had never been a whiz at math, and I could see the gears turning as he figured to himself, “I was born in 1923. But I’m trying to convince him I’m two years younger. Therefore I need to subtract two years. 1923 minus two equals 1921.”“I was born in 1921,” he said aloud, Which of course would have made him 16, and our 10 cents admissions came to an end.

I also remember the story of the lad trying to pay child fare on a bus.

“How old are you?” asked the driver. “Twelve.” “When will you be 13?” “When I get off the bus.” ON THE SENIOR SIDE OF the problem:

“You don’t look a bit older than you did 25 years ago,” a friend (?) once told me. That’s what we oldsters love to hear, and I thanked him profusely. Until he went on to say, “You looked old as hell back then too.”

“I tell people I’m 87 instead of 77,” my favorite columnist, word artist Lee Walburn, told me. “So I can hear them say, ‘You look so young for your age.’”

But it’s not just physical appearance that causes us old folks to want to be younger. Among other things it’s also to be able to remember things better. Like the old man who was crying:

“Why are you crying, old man?” someone asked him. “My wife died.” “Oh, I’m so sorry.” “That’s not the reason I’m crying. I remarried a younger woman who is much prettier and sweeter. She loves me, takes good care of me, is a great cook, and is a wonderful wife.”

“Well, then, why are you crying?”

“Because,” he sobbed, “I can’t remember where I live.”

They told me I could enjoy nostalgia during my senior years. But how can I be nostalgic if my memory is shot?

And it’s difficult when people greet me with, “How are you?” They really don’t want to know, and anybody who’s 90 years old and answers, “I’m fine,” is lyin’. At my age the rule of thumb about the various parts of the body is, “If it works, it hurts. If it doesn’t hurt, it probably ain’t workin’.”

“Don’t tell people your problems,” advises ex football coach Lou Holtz. “Eighty percent don’t care, and the other 20 percent are glad you have them.”

BUT COME TO THINK OF IT, the older we get the more we seem to revert back to our beginnings. “How are you sleeping since the stock market dropped so much?” I asked a friend. “I sleep like a baby,” he said. “Really?” “Yes,” he said. “I wake up every couple of hours and cry!”

“I seem to become more and more like I was as a baby,” another old fellow told me. “No hair, no teeth, and I think I just wet my pants.”

Jack Runninger of Rome is a retired optometrist and state and national award-winning humor columnist. His most recent book is “Funny Female Foibles.” Readers may contact him at runningerj@comcast.net.