Late Bloomer

By Gipp Forster

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I wish I hadn't been such a late bloomer. By the time maturity caught up with me, I was already a senior. When I was ready to boogie, my body was "boogieless." And when I was ready to challenge the world, the world told me not to call it, it would call me. I'm still waiting for the call.

I remember always wanting to be about three inches taller than I was. Now, I'm three inches shorter than I was when I wanted to be three inches taller!

Sixty-five, 70, 75, 80 years might sound awfully old to the young, but not to the ones who own them. Years are like sand that runs through our fingers. They go that quickly!

I'm sure glad we don't take these tired old bodies with us when we leave this world to journey to the next. I guess I could handle holding onto my body when I had a 33-inch waist, was three inches taller, could see my shoes while standing up and was even able to bend down to tie them! But not now.

I offered to leave my body to science, but they want references, so I've decided against it. My wife says science isn't big enough for my body. She always knows the right thing to say when I'm feeling low.

I'm sure being a late bloomer has its advantages. I just can't think of any.

The disadvantages are a bit frustrating. Now that I realize that all things are to be taken in moderation, I am well past moderate. Now that I have learned it is wise to run from temptation, temptation has run from me. Now that I understand what it means to walk and not run, I'm stuck on a scooter.

Life is not fair for we late bloomers. My grown children seem to be my elders and pat me on the hand when I try to tell them of my revelations.

Maturity isn't all it's cut out to be. People just don't seem to appreciate a vibrant, intelligent young adult in a senior body! They think a "late bloomer" is some kind of undergarment.

I guess the best way to describe a late bloomer is a person who finally gets to sit behind the steering wheel in a car, and discovers cars, as a rule, no longer have a clutch. Or arriving at the dance when everyone else has gone home. Or wanting to take a bite out of the world, but afraid of losing their teeth in the process.

My kids and stepkids, who are in their 30s and 40s, have been mature for years. When I was in my 30s and 40s, I was still trying to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up! My wife is still waiting for an answer.

My 13-year-old grandson is far more mature now than I was when I was 53! When I suggest he and I go see a movie, more often than not, he will tell me there is nothing really suitable for me to see and it would be better if we stayed at home. When I told him I thought I was old enough to handle whatever Hollywood chose to dish out, he smiled patiently, sighed and changed the subject.

Now that I have bloomed, I want the world to know! I'm as good as any mature adult even better than some I would hope. My wife says I'm being supercilious, but it's true I tell you!

Being a late bloomer is like inheriting a million dollars while living on a deserted island with no way off.

My body may demand to be in bed by 9 p.m., but my mind parties until the wee hours.

My flesh may be overblown and part of the sag explosion, but my mind is muscular and can still run down the beach kicking sand in thin guys' faces.

My body may be old, but my mind is younger than young and the mature of the mature.

It's not so bad being a late bloomer. But it sure is lonely!





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