Bob

Batz

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December 19, 2008

At 68, My Wild Urges Have Finally Arrived

I think I’ve finally reached the “Let’s Get Crazy” stage of my life.

They say many people, especially men, go through this stage at one time or another. Most of them, I’ve heard, reach that point when they are in their 30s, 40s or 50s.

I waited until I was 68 to do it.

I define the “Let’s Get Crazy” stage as a time when a person gets . . . well . . . um . . . weird urges.

My first such urge came to me on a Tuesday morning a couple of months ago when I suddenly felt an enormous desire to buy a motorcycle.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve done some pretty daring things in my 68-plus years.

I mean, hey, I grew up in Flint, Michigan. I’ve driven a fire engine. I’ve engineered a passenger train across the flat-as-a-dinner-plate Midwest farmlands. I’ve ridden with vice cops in Miami, Fla. I’ve played Santa Claus at a kid’s daycare center.

But, alas, I’ve never owned a motorcycle. In fact, I’ve never even been a passenger on a motorcycle.

The bike of my dreams is a bright yellow Harley.

I told my first wife Sally about my sudden urge to take to the open road on a yellow Harley.

“Goody,” she replied, not looking up from the magazine she was reading.

Eight days after the motorcycle episode, I was seized by another urge. I found myself wanting to be a circus clown. I’ve never been a circus clown and it looks like it could be one heck of a lot of fun.

“I’m thinking about becoming a circus clown,” I told Sally.

“Peachy,” she said, not taking her eyes off the TV show she was watching.

Buoyed by my wife’s intense interest in my late-in-life urges, I made a list of all the things I’d like to do now that I’ve turned 68.

Despite my fear of heights, I’d love to parachute from an airplane. I’d also like a chance to go fishing with one of those TV show hosts who always catches a thousand or so 200-pound bass during a 30-minute program.

I have so many late-life urges . . .

I'd appreciate a chance to win just one argument with my wife. I'd like to get a tattoo that covers most of my right arm and conveys the message “Born to raise hell.”

I’d love to be able to eat liver and onions and dunk a basketball and write a best-selling novel.

Lots of guys I know wish they had a million dollars. As for me, well, I’d be just as satisfied if I could just once par a hole on a golf course.

Contact Bob at bbatz@woh.rr.com  

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