150 years old

Today I attended the ice cream social for residents of assisted living and memory care facilities where Dad lives. With early rock music playing in the background, Dad slurped his root beer float.

Meanwhile, the affable doctor who lives down the hall from Dad stopped to talk to me. He said he thought Dad looks pretty good and asked how old he is.

“He’s 84 years young,” I told him. “How old are you?”

“I’m 150,” he said, “but people tell me I don’t look that old.”

“That’s remarkable,” I said. “You’re in great shape for someone that age.”

“Well, I still box,” he told me, “even younger guys. I’m still pretty strong,” he said flexing his muscles.

All through this conversation, he was moving in time to the music. It was all I could do to control myself, to keep from getting up and dancing with him.

“What kind of doctor were you?” I asked.

“A pediatrician,” he told me. “And I still practice. The kids love me and some call me by my first name.” Looking at Dad, he pronounced, “I think he’s having trouble with his eyes. But he seems to be in good shape. He gets around, but I’m faster.”

Sue