When I’m 80, I’ll finally get away with things.

After watching my parents getting old, I’ve realized this life of being a lazy writer and comic is really going to save my back and knees. I have these great fantasies of growing old with humor and grace and everyone will want to be around to see what I might say next. But I’m pretty sure I’ll have lost my mind as much as my bowels and be hating on everyone like all the rest.

I’ll be bitter because after all these years of avoiding them, my kids will start planning their inheritance and making me sign papers instead of getting me to play board games.

Still, it would be a lot of fun sexually harassing the staff at the nursing home, should I need to go there someday. I think nursing homes will install wi-fi in every room by the time we’re 85 so we can live post our sponge baths on social media. Prunie selfies all around!

In our nursing homes in 50 years, there may even be robotic massage therapy staff with vibrating massage fingers to pamper us. We’ll have no care in the world besides when our last bowel movement was and when our next meal is.

Sometimes I can’t wait until the day you can walk into a waiting room and the elderly are covered in visible tattoos and old piercing scars. When all the elderly people in America are playing with smartphones in waiting rooms the terrorists will win, but I still cherish the visualization.

I can’t wait to get old enough that lying is socially acceptable and tall stories are expected. I can’t wait until I’m 80 so I don’t have to pretend I know why I always want to take my pants off during a car wash and finally I’ll get away with it.

I’ll get to say really cute things like, “Oh, well I’ll be! That’s a nifty lil machine you’ve got there” and when I need a nap, I can either just pass out where I sit or I can say, “I’m all tuckered out” and no one will think I’m just trying to get out of doing the dishes. In fact, they’ll tuck me in with an afghan and think I look adorable while I drool with my mouth gaping open, snoring away at the ceiling.

And if I can figure out how to kill off my best friends’ spouses, we’ve talked about retiring to somewhere warm and lounging on the lanai like Golden Girls. We’ll lose our minds together and compare epic sexting sessions with strangers we texted in our latest dementia-fueled haze. We’ll rub our favorite stocking stuffer (Icy Hot) on each other like sunscreen, and we’ll check each other’s dentures for stains.

We’ll eat cheesecake like the Golden Girls did, and then we’ll talk about how awful lactose intolerant we are now and take turns changing each other’s diapers when we couldn’t all get to the toilet in time. We’ll wear muumuus for comfort and swipe our old, bony fingers across new-fangled iPads sending pictures to the grandkids with our dentures photobombing each one.

I don’t know how to end this, so here’s a cute thing my kid did:

TV commercial: Is it difficult to get to the bathroom on your own?
3yo: Yes.
TV commercial: Have you fallen in the past 12 months?
3yo: Yes!
TV commercial: If you answered yes to these questions, you may qualify for a power chair or scooter…
3yo: OKAY!

Did you know that buying from Amazon with my affiliate
link helps me pay for the drinking habit I don’t have?
My liver still thanks you. 

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