So far, this is the oldest I’ve ever been.

Last week I wrote an article about how I’m getting older. Not that I’m old.

On the other hand, nobody thinks of themselves as old, as much as nobody thinks of themselves as young. Even a 2-year-old, if you ask him, will assure you that he’s a big boy. I tell my students all the time that they don’t know anything because they’re young, and they say, “Nuh uh; we’re regular. You’re old.”

Then, because I’m their English teacher, I have to teach them that there’s no such thing as “regular.”

But last week, I started making peace with aging by listing some of the things that I do that I didn’t used to do in my 20s, such as go to the doctor. This week, we’re going to talk about some points that I wanted to talk about last week, but I forgot.

For example, my memory is going, apparently. Little by little. For example, sometimes I’ll be telling a story, which takes long and longer these days, because, as I age, my stories get longer to tell because they take longer to happen. And then the person I’m talking to will tell me that I already told him that story, but I’ll keep going, repeating the same story that I forgot that I told him, like I’m writing an article and trying to fill some kind of word count.

Another thing that struck me recently is that I finally understand the halacha against sitting in one’s father’s chair. When I was a kid and I heard about it, I thought, “That seems like a pretty minor thing. Really? That was the first example of kibud av the rebbi could think of?” But now I’m like, “Yeah, that’s the first thing I think of when I walk into the house, too. I’ve been thinking about sitting here the whole way home. How about from now on you stand up when I come into the room, just in case?”

Another thing about age is that my memory is going, apparently. Sometimes I’ll be telling someone a story, and he’ll tell me that I already told him that story, but I’ll keep going, repeating the same story that I forgot that I told them, like I’m writing an article and trying to fill some kind of word count.

And my memory is slipping in other ways too. Sometimes I’ll call hungry “starving” and bored “serious.” It’s hard to keep track when they keep changing their names every day.

But on the other hand, it might not be an age thing. My students forget pens and paper when they come to class, and they’re “regular.”

Yet they bother me about my memory all the time. A student will ask, “What did I get on that test the other day?” And I’ll say, “I don’t remember offhand. You think I can memorize 45 grades?” And he’ll ask, “Why not? You’re too old?”

This from someone who forgot there was going to be a test.

Another thing that seems to have happened at some point is that I’m starting to be okay with people calling me “Mister.” Nobody ever starts off comfortable being called “Mister.” They’re like, “No, my father is Mister.”

“Um, I don’t know your father. To me, you’re Mister.” It’s not like a real name that you can’t use as long as your father is alive, because of kibud av. Is it?

But then you go through a bunch of years where new people you meet are uncomfortable about what to call you—“Rabbi? Doctor?” and you say, “Please call me Mister.”

Or enough people keep calling you Mister and you keep correcting them, and then after a while, you’re like, “I guess that’s my name.” Every time you’re in the waiting room at the doctor, they call out, “Mr. Schmutter?” And you call back, “My FATHER is mister!”

“Yeah, I don’t care. Get in the office.”

And eventually, the length of time that people have been calling you Mister beats out the length of time that people called you Schmutter (or whatever). You eventually realize, “This is a losing battle. More and more people keep calling me Mister. Maybe they’re right.”

It’s not worth getting aggravated. You have high blood pressure as it is.

Because that’s another thing. Apparently when you age, your blood pressure gets higher. In fact, my doctor—the one who’s obsessed with trying to get me to come back once a month—keeps trying to get me to take blood pressure medication (he says my BP’s “a little high”) despite my protests that I have it under control. I’m finding that this fight is really not good for my blood pressure.

The thing is, I’m not crazy about the idea of blood pressure pills, because I know people who take them, but I don’t know anyone who’s ever stopped.

So I asked, “Why do I have to take pills if it’s just a little high?”

So he said, “Well, high blood pressure runs in your family.”

So I asked, “How many people in my family have to have it for you to say that it runs in my family? Because I only know of one, unless you count my shver. Why don’t we wait for it to run high with me and then we’ll worry about it?”

So I’ve been taking the pills every day that I remember. I generally forget on Shabbosim. I’m busy remembering the Shabbos, to keep it holy. It doesn’t help that I keep the pills on my work desk.

I’m sorry if all of this feels like I’m complaining, but recent studies actually show that complaining helps you live longer. This is why Jews are always complaining. Your kids, for example, who were born crying, are definitely going to outlive you. And your mother-in-law is going to live forever.

Your father-in-law, meanwhile, has high blood pressure.

By Mordechai Schmutter

Mordechai Schmutter is a freelance writer and a humor columnist for Hamodia and other magazines. He also has six books out and does stand-up comedy. You can contact him at [email protected].