I love these e-mails I get every day or so about the trials and tribulations of senior citizens.

I even like the ones that tell about all the privileges I'm entitled to by being this old.

But there's nothing like another -birthday that gets you deeper into the 70s to remind you that maybe there are some things about growing old that may give you an edge over those young whippersnappers, or whatever they're called these days.

Heck, I know that I'm officially old now. That's why I often wear a cap with the words "Don't Forget My Senior Discount" printed above the visor.

Although, truthfully, it has been a while since a cashier didn't automatically hit the discount button when I paid.

My grandkids, all six of whom are of the female variety, think it's -hilarious when I use a hammer to open the prescription medicines that I bring home with childproof caps. I've really gotten very good at that.

The BW, who somehow seems to age with a lot more grace than I, tends to get a little peeved at me when we go someplace these days, though. Seems she finds it irritating that I'm usually ready to go back home before we get to wherever it is we're going.

Golf has become more of challenge for me these days than a game. Will I be able to get out of bed in time to make that noon tee time?

I mean, I've been awake for hours; it's just that my body won't allow me to get out of bed.

If I do make it to the first tee in time, will I be able to bend over far enough to tee the ball up?

If I do get it teed up, will I be able to straighten up without disturbing the other golfers with groans of pain -bordering on screams?

But that's OK, because the griping and complaining coming from those guys doesn't even register with me anymore.

Even with the new hearing aids, which I've just had replaced for the fifth time after either a) losing them, b) taking a shower with them in my ears, or c) breaking them while attempting to replace batteries, I still can't hear a lick.

I just smile and nod and mumble something back.

I have become very adept at telling jokes while teeing off, though. Yeah, I know, the guys claim that I told the same jokes the day before, but I know that's bull because they're new to me.

The BW complains that I'm -becoming even grouchier as I age. But I think the poor woman is sadly misled. It's not that I'm grouchy, it's just that I hate driving in traffic, I can't stand crowds, I'd rather have a fast food burger than wait 15 minutes in line for a steak, loud music drives me nuts, noisy kids make me want to yell, barking dogs make me want to call animal control and politicians make me want to ... well, they make me nauseous.

I still love playing golf, only what I'm doing these days isn't really -playing. It's more like I'm suffering golf.

I'd really like to change golf clubs. But the BW says the set I bought last week is as good as anything I might buy this week. I'd try getting a refund for these useless irons I just bought, but I can't remember where I bought them.

I get a little irked every time I go to the golf course and see all those young guys showing off with those 300-yard drives on the first tee. Then I realize that most of them paid their cart fees with their social security checks.

The last time I hit a 300-yard drive, there was a 40-mile-an-hour wind behind me and the ball hit a cart path that crossed the fairway. Even then it took me two more shots to reach the green.

I can't help wondering, if you're only as old as you feel, why am I still alive at 125?

I am well-cared for, though - eye care, private care, dental care and long-term care.

And, as I celebrate yet another of those dreaded B-days, I realize ever more clearly that aging is not for wimps.

Contact Howard Ward at (910) 867-6493 or (910) 690-2211 or by e-mail at

howardward@att.net