Unfortunately, if you live long enough, life has a way of coming back full circle and biting you on your fetching little bottom. Clearly, I recall a loop. Barely 20 and in race horse shape, I was in a pickup basketball game at the old Hart High Indian gym. Some poor 35-something weekend warrior was on the enemy squad of our full-court game. Three laps in, the dear, aging-gracefully chap is sucking canal water. He hasn’t run 500 feet and his aorta is on the outside of his sweat-drenched T-shirt, with each slap in the face screaming, “ARE? YOU? TRYING? TO? KILL? ME?!?!?!?!”

In a blink, I’m 39, playing full court at Hart. Some kid was giving me That Look, damning, silent and judgmental, asking, “Why are you here with us young, virile stags, attempting to leap but failing miserably?” Life’s Wretched Clock. Weekend Warrior first, then, two decades later, me, both too proud to quit. We both finished, then limped out of the gym, each to find a shady tree under which to make our transition.

I loved running errands with my dad. He was in his 80s, still AARP Magazine cover-pops healthy and handsome. I erred in taking El Padre into Starbucks with me one morning. Big. Fat. Huge. Mistake. I ordered one of my sissy coffee drinks with the patented Teddy bear foam face atop. Dad glanced at the menu overhead, gasped, pulled me aside and whispered: “MY GOD SON!!! Did you see these prices? Let’s go back to the ranch, I’ll make you a cup of coffee and I’ll only charge you a nickel.”

© Santa Clarita Valley Signal