Age Is More Than a Number at the Bowling Alley – Ed Iannuccilli

by Ed Iannuccilli, contributing writer

When she said it, I leaned back, befuddled. This lovely lady was teaching me a lesson —- one I appreciate even more today than I did those years ago.

I began my medical practice eager and prepared, armed with facts and routines, and a desire to help. Just a few weeks into the job, I learned a valuable lesson.

She was a dignified, well-spoken, impeccably dressed woman. We sat for the consultation. “Mrs. ___, I find you in excellent health.”

“Thank you, doctor. It’s hard to believe I am eighty.” My rather inane response of, “Well, it’s only a number,” stopped the action. She sat up. Her deep, expressive eyes held years of experience. And just a few crow’s feet when she squinted.

With confidence, grace, and wisdom, she said, “Young man, I suggest you never say that to another patient. You see, you may believe eighty is just a number, but I have the number.”

Lesson learned, and no, I’ve never said that to another patient since. Chronological age is a number, but not “just a number” if you own it.

Today, it is common to meet people in their eighties and beyond who are still functioning at a high level mentally and physically.

Now that I have the number, I have given it more thought. Sure, good health influences it, but so do culture, psychology, activity, and engagement with others. It’s about adapting to change. It’s about being treated with respect. It’s about sharing insights with younger generations and hoping that they listen. It’s about being seen as a resource.

Maintaining social connections and relationships is a key factor in how an octogenarian feels. I make it a point to contact a friend every day.

Being eighty differs for everyone because different things shape their lives – – – health status and mental well-being, especially. Eighty is not just a number if you own it, but one day at a time helps the navigation.

So, what does bowling have to do with it?

My friend, a pin-boy who reset pins by hand for ten cents a string, introduced me to the game.

The targets were duckpins, fired at with a small, softball-sized ball that fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. With three rolls per frame, we learned about strikes and spares.

My later memories were of taking a date bowling. It was an easy night … minimal conversation, anxiety quashed by activity, an ice cream, and then home. Yes, yes … home.

Now, in my more mature years, I bowl on occasion with my grandchildren, using a bigger, heavier ball with three holes in it for fingers and thumb. The object is the same — knock down as many pins as possible.

I have realized a few things. First, the gutters on either side of the alley gobble balls quicker than they ever did when I was younger. Second, the alleys are heavily oiled. Third, I ache after bowling.

On this day, I wanted to show the kids. “Pay attention, kids. Watch me curve this one in for a strike!”

I bent over to swipe the alley with my fingers. “Hmmm, I don’t remember this much oil.” I dried my hands on the blower as the ball made its way along the aqueduct.

I picked it up, jammed my fingers in, walked back, took my run, swung my arm, and tried to let the missile go. At the foul line, I stuttered to a dead stop and, as the stubborn ball snapped out, I lurched and, yep, you guessed it.

With a minimal degree of difficulty, I flew, spread-eagled, into the alley, sliding effortlessly along the well-oiled surface on my belly. I lay there marinated in oil.

The bowling crew, patrons, Diane, and grandkids came running, shouting those dreaded words, “Are you alright, Sir?” It’s the Sir thing that got me; a polite word that defined me as a senior citizen eligible for the dreaded fall.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, I’m fine,” as I snapped to my knees. I looked down the alley to see that honey of a ball curve perfectly into the one-three pocket for a strike!

I stood, turned with the swagger of a gunslinger, wiped my hands on my pants and shirt, blew on my fingers, looked to my grandchildren, now bent with laughter, and declared, “Now, that’s how you do it, kids.”

Eighty is just a number? Harumph.

___

Ed Iannuccilli – edwrites.net