I'm old, I'm tired and I'm hungry

I can remember a time, lo, many years ago, when after I woke up in the morning, I would JUMP out of bed, get myself ready, RUN out the door and could JUMP flatfooted over a picket fence.

Now I ROLL out of bed ONTO THE FLOOR, get myself ready, CRAWL out the door and if there's a fence in my way and I can't go around it, I just turn around and go home.

I don't have the time or energy to be messing with fences.

I'm old, I'm tired and I'm hungry.

As a matter of fact, from now on that's my official motto: I'm old, I'm tired and I'm hungry.

I'm putting that on a bumper sticker. I'm stamping it on my luggage. I'm having it monogrammed on my shirts. I'm going to put it on a billboard.

I wake up in the morning and I hurt in places where I don't even remember having places. Stuff hurts that never hurt before.

I open my eyes and try to move. My back resists the effort. "I'm not ready for movement," it cries out to my brain. I've been dormant for several hours. You can't expect me to just bolt right into action. I ain't 30 anymore."

"OK," my brain responds. "Let's try the knees."

"A-r-r-g-g-h-h," the knees respond. "We are not ready either. Besides, why should we have to move when the back gets to remain still?"

So I lie there while my brain - or what's left of it - runs through a systems check like NASA does before a space shuttle launch. And while the space shuttle almost always checks out fine, that ain't necessarily the case with my decrepit old carcass.

Here's my brain going down the list: Back - Not fully functional. Knees - Not operational. Legs - Painful and uncooperative. Shoulders - No response.

Arms - Forget it.

Head - Mouth has trench-breath, eyes are red and watery (some gunk in the corners), ears sunburned and slightly infected, nose stopped up on one side resulting in whistling sound when exhaling reminiscent of the noise Curly from the Three Stooges made when he snored.

Kidneys - WARNING! WARNING! KIDNEYS WORKING FINE. WHICH MEANS ALL THOSE OTHER PARTS PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED BETTER GET IT IN GEAR AND GET TO MOVING!

So I get to walking around and things start clicking together pretty good but I'm still stiff and sore in places and not exactly a candidate for the gymnastics team.

But it's Saturday and golf is a great motivator and I make it to the course and get to the first tee where all the other players in our Saturday "dogfight" (this is a term used to describe a competition involving a number of players and does not actually refer to real dogs being harmed in any way) have gathered. It's sort of like a meeting of tribal elders only the tribal elders are carrying golf clubs instead of spears and are dressed in funny shorts or pants instead of loincloths and feathers. And the testosterone level is significant … almost off the scale actually … because each elder wants to prove to the other elders that he deserves the title of Grand Exalted Linkster. Some of the golfing elders complain of aches and discomfort.

I feel their pain.

I bend over to place a ball on a tee and momentarily lose consciousness. I raise up quickly to keep from blacking out.

C-R-R-A-A-C-C-K-K, my back goes.

"I told you I wasn't ready," my back reminds my brain.

"Shut up," my brain replies. "You'd better get ready, because we're going to hit this ball a mile down the fairway."

"R-i-i-i-g-g-g-h-h-h-t-t-t," my back responds sarcastically. So me and my back and brain try to sync with my arms and legs and hips and we all go into motion and take a mighty swing — sort of like Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack — and the result is a monumental popup about 80 yards or so down the fairway. Not the screaming monster line drive down the middle I had envisioned.

And the bystanders waste no time in ridiculing my effort.

"That thing's going to burn up on re-entry," one of them yelled.

Trying to think of a quick comeback, I blurt out something really clever like, "Well, at least it's straight," or something similarly lame.

As I get in the cart, my back and brain are still at it. "Told ya," my back says.

"Shut up!" my brain snaps back.

We roll out to where my ball lays near the ladies tees and there are the usual old lines from the group about having to "put my skirt on" and "does your husband play?"

So I get out a 3-wood and swing out of my shoes and I feel bones and muscles and tendons and things that orthopedic surgeons haven't even identified yet being strained but I manage to get the ball up near the green. So I skull it across the green on my third shot, chip it six feet past the flag on my fourth, miss the putt on my fifth and tap in for a tidy 36-handicapper double-bogey.

"Stupid golf ball!" I said, holding the uncooperative sphere in front of my face and talking to it like it's human. "I can go home and get disappointed," I tell it.

"See," my back tells my brain. "He's not having any fun. Let's go home."

"Quit your whining," my brain responds. "We're not going anywhere until 18 holes are finished. There are pars and birdies out there and we're going to find them."

I get back in the cart and a bee lights on my right wrist. As I reach over with my left hand to flick it away, it stings me.

"HOLY BUCKETS! THAT HURT!" I exclaimed.

"What happened?" my playing partners all inquire.

"Nothing," I sighed, trying to hide the painful wince. "It's just that I'm old, I'm tired and I'm hungry."

Oh yeah, and my back STILL hurts.

Klonie Jordan (editor@gaffneyledger.com) is executive editor of The Gaffney Ledger.