Superhuman – Getting On

I am become pin-cushion. In the last few weeks I have had blood drawn from me three times and various viruses (dead, alive and partial) pumped into me half a dozen more. This week the nurse plans to deplete my ichor by a further 30ml whilst enhancing my vigour by injecting me with something that will stiffen my resolve in the face of pneumonia and shingles. I am 65 years of age and the NHS is making me superhuman. At the rate I am being pumped full of beneficial fluids, I will, should I make it to 100, be inured to all known ailments.

Now please don’t think, even for a second, that I am in anyway ungrateful for these recent ministrations. I most definitely am not. Above all else I wish to be as well as I can be for as long as I might live, and I am quite happy to be pierced in order to get me there. It all comes along at once, which is fine – viruses don’t form an orderly queue, do they? They are bullies: they gang up on you. They are like hyenas and estate agents, constantly looking for an area of weakness to exploit. I’m very happy to accept aching arms if that’s what it takes to keep them at bay. The little red, hot and itchy patches are my spider bites. They are my River Styx.

Unfortunately, like my more revered fellow Styx-dipper, I do have an area of particular vulnerability. My own Achilles Heel is that I am me: a walking bad decision. If there is a wrong choice to make, I will make it. If there is a worst time to do it, I will be counting down the seconds. My capacity for unintentional self-harm is unrivalled in the modern world. If there is something to walk into, I will do so. If there is something to trip over, I will do that also. If there is someone very big and very angry who is just waiting to be offended, I will find him. I am an Exocet missile with ‘Home’ programmed into its GPS.

One good thing about slowing down as you get older is that you don’t hit things quite so hard. I’m at a loss to think of any others. Falling over is a particular problem associated with ageing and it is of particular concern to me as it is something at which I am particularly adept. I can find a patch of something slippery with my eyes closed. I am notoriously unstable on snow or ice and I can perform the kind of gymnastics usually associated with pre-pubescent Romanians with just a few wet leaves to assist me. Dick Fosbury had a flop named after him after leaping over a six foot barrier, I can achieve the same landing position with nothing more than a kerb to go at.

I am looking at science to come up with a vaccination against dyspraxic tendencies and I would be perfectly happy if it came combined with something to counter being a total liability. Protection against giggling at inappropriate moments would also be appreciated… although I think that sixty-five might be a little too late for me.

When I was younger
So much younger than today
I never needed anybody’s help in any way
But now those days are gone
I’m not so self-assured
Now I find I’ve changed my mind
And opened up the door… Help! – The Beatles (Lennon/McCartney)

Sunday 16th June – Father’s day (UK)

I’m not certain just how I expected this to turn out when I started it, but I’m pretty certain it wasn’t quite so Pam Ayres. I was thinking about how, as you get older, your children turn to their partners for support rather than you (quite rightly, of course). Realising that you are no longer their Superman is quite jolting (even if the grandkids still think you’re cool). I remember feeling super-human when I was younger – indestructible – these days if I don’t watch myself I become increasingly anxious. This, I have decided, is stupid and I rail against it. My children do still call me when they want help. My superhuman cape no longer makes me feel invincible, but I still have my moments of being adequate. I can’t stop a speeding bullet, but I can still hang a shelf. I may no longer be Superman, but I’m still in there giving it a go. Watch out Lex Luthor, I’m limping towards you!

Superman

It’s no fun being Superman when your rheumatics are playing you up
And your hairline is receding and your teeth are in a cup.
When just changing in a phone box gives excruciating pain
And you wish you could get back to being just Clark Kent again.

It’s no fun being Superman when you’re not quite what you were
And you wish had a leotard, thermal lined with lots of fur.
When you stomach, like the crime wave, is spreading much too fast
And you realise your exploits are all stories from the past.

It’s no fun being Superman when your x-ray sight has failed
And you find you need bifocals just to read what’s in the mail.
When you find that where you flew one time at supersonic speed
You now can’t race the budgie ‘til he gives you five yards lead.

It’s no fun being Superman when the quiff’s gone from your hair;
When you try to flex your muscles, but you find there’s nothing there.
When a gentle, modest amble has replaced the supersonic
And the only super-strength you have is in your gin & tonic

It’s no fun being Superman when you’d rather run and hide
And your rippling thighs and biceps have now gone out with the tide.
When you wrap your cape around you just to keep you from the cold
And you’re not as scared of Kryptonite as you are of growing old.

It’s no fun being Superman when, as former man of steel,
You discover your whole being is just one Achilles heel
And your super-human body is just human flesh and bone:
It’s no fun being Superman when your super-days have flown.

(I tried, repeatedly, to give this a ‘redemptive’ last verse, but I couldn’t do it. And then I realised that the reason I couldn’t do it, is that it wouldn’t have been right. As long as you realise that not even Superman will be Superman forever, it doesn’t matter. Pour yourself a long one and enjoy the sunshine.)

The Haphazardly Poetical – Flower

The Haphazardly Poetical – ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

Tag: Superhuman

Help!

The Haphazardly Poetical – Superman