Bob

Batz

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August 4, 2008

I’m 68, and I Don’t Care What You Think

I’ve entered the DTATS (pronounced DTATS) stage of my life.

The acronym stands for “Don’t Take Anything Too Seriously.”

For a long, long time I took everything seriously.

If the price of a gallon of gasoline increased by, say, two-tenths of a cent, I ranted. If a TV weather report promised the next day would be sunny and hot and then it snowed, I raved.

But I’m 68 years old now, and the nice thing about being 68 is you are finally old enough to get away with little . . . um . . . quirks you couldn’t get away with when you were 25, 36 or 58.

What I mean is, if you forget a birthday, or call somebody by the wrong name, or say something stupid while standing in line at the local grocery store when you are 36, people take it seriously.

But, if you do the same things when you’re 68, others tend to shrug it off.

I think it’s that way because most people don’t expect a whole lot from those of us who are in our 60s, 70s and 80s. And, quite frankly, now that I’ve reached that age, I really don’t care what other people think of me.

Hey, even at my age I try to live by the rules my mother instilled in my head six decades ago.

Mom, despite her small size, was a tyrant when it came to laying down rules for her only child.

Many times I tried to put one over on my mother. Many times I failed.

Generally speaking, she was a calm, loving, forgiving woman. But, if you happened to break even one of her rules of conduct, she turned into a tyrant.

Oh, sure, I tried to bend the rules, and sometimes I was even successful.

We were Catholic, and once or month or so my mother sent me trudging off to St. Matthew Church to attend confession. As I was walking out the door, she’d always stop me, look into my eyes and say, “Don’t forget to tell the priest everything . . . and I mean everything!”

I always agreed to do it, but on Saturdays in the summertime, most of the boys in my neighborhood played baseball. Saturdays were baseball days, not confession days.

I, being the only Catholic kid on Oak Street, was the only one who had to put off his ball-playing to go to confession. But when you think about it, how many really serious sins can a 13-year-old commit?

With that in mind, I devised a clever way of doing both. Whenever I stepped into a confessional, I simply cut to the chase when it came to sharing my sins with the priest.

I’d always give him one or two minor sins – indiscretions like “I disobeyed my parents three times,” and “I took a bite of a hamburger on a Friday” – then he’d give me a handful of prayers to say and bingo! I’d be out of there in no time at all.

Mom, who often nailed me for disobeying her, never did catch on to my clever confess-and-run tactic.

Funny thing, though, despite the fact I pretty much blew off nearly all the confessions, most of the rules my mother hammered into my head a long, long time ago remain with me today.

I still say “please” when I want something and “thank you” if I get it. I never interrupt when somebody else is talking. I don’t pick my nose at the dinner table. I never utter (many) “naughty” words. I still put on my boots when it’s snowing and carry an umbrella if it looks like rain. I speak only when spoken to.

And, last but not least, I still respect my elders, except, doggone it, the older I get, the harder it is to find people who are actually my elders.

You can reach Bob at bbatz@woh.rr.com  

© 2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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