Bette Davis was right: old age is not for sissies.

It’s the dead of winter. Emphasis on the “dead”. ‘Rona roams free. All of a sudden, it’s no longer a hoax. The country’s vaccine distribution system — a losing lottery of woe — is haphazard, at best. Yet, through persistence, high-speed Internet access, and the ability to arise at 5 a.m., I was able to score shots for me and the wife four weeks ago, and a second round for tomorrow, Valentine’s Day. “Happy Valentine’s Day, doll, let’s go get jabbed.”

Age. Co-morbidities. The aches and pains of a thousand pick-up basketball games, little league catcher’s crouches, pulling-guard groans, hockey flops on frozen Van Cortlandt Park lake.

I take two Advils and one ibuprofen after breakfast — a pro tip my dentist taught me. As good as any controlled pain meds. Not as fun, but it’ll have to do, given temps in the twenties, bleak snowy skies, and biting winds — weather that makes my arthritic knee and back scream.

Can’t go to the movies. Can’t visit friends. Can’t wander about the mall. Can’t linger over dinner at Patricia’s.

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Too cold to play outside. Can’t travel. Not even domestically, given the wet noodle resolve of our countrymen. LA is a mess. Florida is a mess. A big, steaming shit show, from C- to shining C. “C”, for Covid-19.

Age is closing in. Disease is closing in. Financial peril? The wolf is right outside the door. “I’ll huff. And I’ll puff….”

There’s a big birthday dead-ahead. Funny choice of words, eh? Big whoop! I just loaded up with more work assignments. More classes. More story writing. More piano practice.

What’s the metaphor? Whistling pass the graveyard? Close, but more like: put the burlap bag over the horse’s head and lead him out of the burning barn. “Easy, there, big fella. Whoa, now!”

Look around: who are the “snowflakes” now? Who are the brave ones? It’s not a time for sissies. Not. At. All.