Driving Over Eighty
In a classic example of a double entendre, Bob Hope on a Christmas TV special, was hanging balls and lights on a Christmas tree when he invited his guest, Dorothy Lamour, to “Come kiss me under the balls.”
I’ve always loved double entendres—phrases that have two meanings, an obvious easily interpreted meaning and a hidden, frequently sexual, one. Literature, from the time of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales is full of double entendres.
So, you can imagine how delighted I was to come up with Driving Over Eighty, a triple entendre. Driving Over Eighty most obviously means over eighty miles per hour. But it could mean driving over Interstate Eighty. It might also refer to drivers who are over eighty years of age.
I only drive over eighty miles per hour when I’m passing someone who is already doing eighty. And that’s not often. Most frequently it’s when I’m tired of following a truck or SUV blocking my view of the road and I do it with a keen eye for the State Police.
Furthermore, since I now live in South Florida, I seldom have the opportunity to drive Interstate Eighty slicing across New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. It’s hundreds of miles from home.
Having just celebrated the first year of my eighth decade, I’m writing about those of us who are driving and are over eighty years of age. Actually, a friend reminded me that at eighty-one, I’m actually starting my ninth decade. My response was, “Wash your mouth out with Ajax before I clobber you.” Ninth decade really sounds old.
Research confirms that senior drivers are among the safest. Many, however, like my aunt at age ninety, voluntarily surrender their driver’s license knowing that they’ll be the one blamed in case of an accident. In sixty-five years of driving Aunt Frannie never had a ticket or an accident but she was wise enough to anticipate the inevitable.
With a huge number of gay Baby Boomers now turning gray and retiring, the number of drivers over eighty will only increase. So what are the rules of the road for driving over eighty? I’m not talking about the rules that govern the highway.
hose are spelled out by the Department of Motor Vehicles and may vary from state to state. I’m talking about the rules that govern the highway of life, my life, before I start looking at the roots of the daisies instead of the flowers. Several immediately come to mind.
Recognize that less is more.
For most of us, a large part of life is spent accumulating— houses, possessions, degrees, achievement awards, whatever. There comes a time, however, when most of us see the wisdom in downsizing from the semi-palatial house to the demi-palatial condo. Eventually, perhaps, a supportive retirement community may be the downsize of choice. But in the process of downsizing the crucial question is, “Do I own the art, the ceramic collection, the books and antiques, the Baccarat—or do they own me?” Be proactive. Plan ahead. Downsize from choice rather than necessity.
Look out for potholes.
Like the winter roads in snow-country, aging has multiple potholes. Illness and loss are inevitable. It’s the cost of doing business, or rather the cost of growing older. Some potholes can be avoided or bypassed and some will be hit head-on. But hitting a pothole is no excuse to stop driving.
Currently, I’m wearing a hip brace that looks like a medieval torture device with a wide belt about my abdomen attached by a steel rod to a similar band about my thigh. Presumably this will prevent my right hip from dislocating, yet again. It slows me down, but doesn’t stop me.
Some friends mistake my brace for a chastity belt. Others see it as part off an S&M outfit. But I take inspiration from peers who are at parties, public events and in the grocery store on crutches, walkers, or motorized carts dragging their oxygen tanks behind them. If they can keep going, so can I. Despite the potholes, go on cruise control and move ahead.
Share the road.
A final driving rule for those of us over eighty is be willing to share the road—or more aptly, to share the load. Independence is an American credo. From toddlerhood on, the cry is, “I can do it myself, mother.” Growing older forces me to recognize there are times when I need help. It may be transportation to a medical appointment, or someone to change a bandage, or warm a meal. My experience has always been that when I need help, it’s there in spades. My problem is my devotion to independence—my reluctance to ask for help.
I’m still learning, but more frequently now I simply say, “Thank you. I appreciate your assistance.”
Exit laughing.
Perhaps there’s a fourth rule for the highway exemplified on a British TV news show. The day after it was supposed to have snowed eight inches and hadn’t, the female news anchor turned to the weatherman and asked, “So Bob, where’s that eight inches you promised me last night?” The TV crew was so helpless with laughter they had to leave the set. That’s the way I want to finally park—“helpless with laughter.”
John Siegfried, a former Rehoboth resident, lives in Ft. Lauderdale. Email John Siegfried.