There are days that my condition is obvious. Today was not one of those days. except for a sweating episode this morning, I even forgot that I've got PD.
I had appointments in the City and White Plains today. Everything went without a hitch. I did however make an interesting observation about others and about me. My observation,: Manners are more likely to be displayed to a pretty girl then a balding middle aged man anytime.
The appropriate response to this observation can be "duh," "no shit sherlock," or "say goodnight Gracie."
The four signs of aging on a man are, 1) The comb over. Patented by Rudolph Giuliani, this is an exhibition of the sheer stupidity of the male of the species, who actually believes that the world is fooled into believing that he is not bald. I have not resorted to this drastic measure; 2) The inability to properly measure one's waist, -or- "Hey mack, you'd look better in the size 40 that fits than the size 30 that hangs way below your "pupik." 3) Buying a convertible. He can't get in nor out of the car. His wife freezes when he drives in March with the top down. And it ruins his beautiful comb over. But there he is, in his sun glasses, with the mirrors on the inside, so he can see his own reflection, drag racing a 19 year old on Cross Bay Boulevard; 4) A seat on a bus or train is offered to you.
I will admit to, until recently, only having been guilty of Number 2. A few weeks ago a nice young man (use of the term, "nice young man," may be number 5) offered me his seat on the 7 train. I turned him down and have been in intense therapy ever since.
Today on Metro North, I stood from White Plains to Manhattan. This wasn't for lack of manners of the young people aboard the train. Two did offer their seats. To Two very beautiful, ladies in their early twenties. A bald spot, a paunch and a shuffle in the walk can't compete with a wiggle and a walk and a giggle and a talk...
Somehow this I understand and can accept.