The golden years are chock-full of great things, but some of those ‘golden moments’ aren’t so hot.

I suppose (being over 40) I now qualify as having entered my ‘golden years’. Somebody toss me a line and start hauling me back.

Just kidding; actually I’m having a hoot being retired, but there definitely are some drawbacks.

As you climb the ladder to that dignified level of being respected as (almost) a senior, you realize your inadequacies are growing at an accelerated rate.

As an example, after driving my car for a couple of hours I used to hop out, bounce up the steps to a restaurant where we’d have a bite to eat, then resume our journey.

Now, after a couple of hours behind the wheel, I open the door carefully, put one foot on terra firma, haul the other out with great difficulty, then with both feet out I push myself to a standing position and sort of hobble along for a good 10 feet or so before I get my sea legs back.

That’s now becoming an increasingly major accomplishment – getting the motor running again after sitting so long.

Finally, after being able to straighten up and walk without the hobble effect referred to earlier, I manage to climb slowly up the steps to chow down and re-invigorate.

My first stop, (well before checking the menu) is in the local washroom where I stand at the mini-showers and revel in the pause that refreshes.

That done, I try my darndest to remember what I came in the restaurant for, hear a slight rumble in my stomach, and remember I’m hungry.

Now this – my ability to remember – brings me to the next problem of the encroaching ‘golden years’.

This is where I get a little upset with my wife.

For the life of me I swear I’m getting a memory much like that slice of bread sopped to saturation with gravy … no room for another drop. That’s a pretty accurate comparison to my memory and me.

Some people qualify for that old expression, “she has a memory like a steel trap”; my memory is like that slice of bread saturated with gravy - it’s soft and mushy.

I often have trouble remembering in which pocket I put the slip of paper with my name and directions home in; and when I ask my wife why we don’t just tattoo the information on my forearm she reminds me it’s not practical in the event we move.

Oh … the joys of growing older.

Actually, growing older really is a joy.

You’ve finally realized you simply can’t have everything you want, and you’ve also realized that only half of what you want is about 10 times what you need.

It’s a good life.