It's starting to happen.

I've caught myself, more and more, vocalizing observations that, heretofore, would have been stuff I only thought to myself. Granted, these are softly spoken, and I doubt anyone can hear what I'm saying, but it's also true that I have no control over the impulse. Words are out of my mouth before I even knew I was speaking.

Also, these are never actual profundities. They are invariably trivial and, I should point out, negative.

"What sort of human thinks it's OK to park like that?"

"Nice beret. You're Dr. John, right?"

Yes, this development is a major sign post on the melancholy downhill trail to a destination I like to call Old Dude Land, and there's not a lot I can do about it. Or is there? Optimists among us — those cheery folks who memorize Dante to maintain mental acuity or drink milkshakes of human testosterone whilst bicycling to and from the Canadian border thrice weekly — feel as though they're keeping  the state of "Doddering" at bay. And maybe they are.

Me? I'd rather do the best I can to make the process at least interesting to those who have to be around me.

1. I recently read a novel written from the POV of a 12-year-old boy. He made this observation: "You expected old people to die. They even smelled a bit like they were already half dead. Kind of musty and stale." The kid — fictitious though he was — is right. What worries me is: Have I reached the "musty and stale" point regardless of fruity, pleasantly spicy hygienic efforts to the contrary? And it hit me: Why fight it? I'd like to find and use an aromatic soap/shampoo specifically designed to replicate decay. That way, when younger folks pass me and instinctively wrinkle their noses in disgust or pity, I can smile to myself and think, "It's only the soap — I'm not there yet."

2. I'm going to use fake "oldster rambles" to broaden the flavor and texture of the inadvertent mumblings alluded to above. That way, passersby can raise their eyebrows in astonishment, fear or even delight when they hear the geriatric wearing a ragged Big Country T-shirt, whimper:

A. "I buried them deep enough, right?"

B. "I don't regret my porn career. No siree! Not one bit!"

C. "I see you, Reaper." (Then breaking into  skittering run, looking over my shoulder, as though from pursuer). "You won't catch me, you scythe-wielding bastard!"

3. I'm going to buy a giant old Buick and bang into stuff while wearing those huge, temporary cardboard stems/plastic lenses sunglasses that optometrists give you after an exam. "That stone wall wasn't there yesterday," I'll say.