I wear hearing aids, now, due to too much plinking in my youth. Makes me look old, but Lynn (my wife) thinks they are sexy. When she puts her cheek against mine, she says she can hear better herself.
I am losing my cognitive capabilities, partially from the general anesthesia, probably, but a lifetime of drinking hasn’t helped. Can’t even think of sensible retorts to Hoke’s abuse.
And work is getting harder and harder. I am the invisible man. Ralph Ellison popularized the concept racially, but he wasn’t old, or he wouldn’t have been so selective. Girls simply don’t look at me anymore, or remember me the third time I rent a car from the same one and say the cutest things I can think of to make an impression.
On Friday, Lynn and I dined at the Gristmill, a lovely little restaurant on the Schroon River in the Adirondack Park. Our waitress was just starting to show some age, somewhere in her late 40’s, and she was beautiful, with some real character in her face. As I sat down, I asked her to please bring us some wine before she did anything else. As though I were invisible and inaudible, she started reading the specials.
I said, “Did you hear what I said?” She was taken aback and went off to fetch some wine, after I explained what we wanted. Lynn angrily told me that I was totally out of line, and that she almost told me in front of the waitress, except she did not want to exacerbate the situation.
When the waitress returned, I said I was sorry for being abrupt and that I realized how bad I had sounded. She looked at me squarely in the eyes with an even expression and said nothing. She was a superior human being to me. And perhaps the best waitress I have ever had, or at least second to none other. She handled the bottle, the cork, the pouring with five-star perfection. She had obviously waited elsewhere.
I mention this because it is very important not to take out the frustration of aging on others, which so many old folks do. This is a lesson I learned possibly forever, thanks to the expression on the waitresses face when I apologized.
I ordered a bottle of 2003 Chateau Trimoulet, an inexpensive Saint-Emilion. It was absolutely delicious. I think the poor storage aged it precociously. Beautiful animal and earth notes and very clean, even classic. And our raven haired waitress was ever so attentive and correct, and began to meet my eyes with a faint, intimate, Gatsby smile, as though she understood me and still liked me. I tried to return the favor. Lynn thought she was about the best ever, too.
We watched the river flow and could not have been at a better place or a better time. For me, Bordeaux makes this possible. The commodity that improves with age helps those of age improve with it. Miraculous.