Standing Up, Sitting Down, and Other Olympic Sports After 40

The year was 1995. I was seated on the traditional 1970s burnt orange horrid catastrophe of a couch with my father, watching the Florida Panthers play on television, backed by my favorite goaltender, John Vanbiesbrouck. Things were going well. The Beezer was holding his own and making Wayne Gretzky rethink his afternoon.

Dad and I had a deal: I got to watch hockey on Saturdays when it was on, especially if Florida was playing, and as punishment, I had to sit and watch wrasslin' afterward.

I'm not clear on how or when he became interested in professional wrestling, but it had become a joy for him, and no good son wants to get in the middle of that. His favorite at the time was a young man named Alex Wright, a fellow from West Germany. I'm not sure what about Alex energized him, but he wouldn't miss an episode the wrestler was in.

I met Alex once. He was a fine gentleman who was grocery shopping with his mother then. They were equally excited about my father's fandom, and I scored an autograph for Dad. He cherished it.

On this particular afternoon, while discussing the potential of building a ring and forcing Baptist preachers to wrestle each other, utilizing folding chairs and harshly uttered scripture against their opponents, Dad decided he needed a respite to the refrigerator.

That was when I heard it, the breathy, painful "Oh!" as he rose. It was a rite of passage. "The bones are older than the mind, I guess," he said as he propelled himself on his mission.

I remember the first time it happened. I was getting up to grab another biscuit during dinner, and as I stood, a sound escaped me that made everyone at the table pause. My niece looked at me like I'd just barked at the moon.

"What was that?" she asked.

"What was what?" I replied, trying to play it cool. But I knew. Oh, I knew.

There was a time when I could spring up from a chair without so much as a creak. Now? I sound like a rocking chair that's been left out in the rain for 20 years, and the neighbors are fresh out of WD-40. My knee had already gained a history of snapping like a Black Cat firecracker, and I thought somehow I could disguise it with that, but the secret was out.

It was a surprise to me, too.

Before long, it wasn't just an occasional grunt. It became a daily occurrence. Sitting down, standing up, even leaning over to tie my shoes—all accompanied by a geriatric soundtrack of groans, sighs, and wheezes. Granted, it was worse when I was carrying about sixty more pounds, but I only downgraded the elderly bone orchestra to an outré jazz band.

My wife has taken to asking, 'Do you need help?' every time I stand up. The first few times were sweet, but now it's just offensive.

Apparently, aging ain't just about gray hairs or wrinkles—it's the small things, like the sound effects you never signed up for. I've seen where this leads. An elderly neighbor once had a recliner that also leaned forward in addition to backward. There was a debate on whether it qualified as a slow-moving catapult or a trebuchet. We never did identify the counterweight.

Apparently, it has something to do with joints, muscles, and other parts of the human body that decide to unionize against you after 40. I didn't study biology, but I can tell you this: when you start making noises, your body is filing a formal complaint. It's only a matter of time until the body union rep shows up to lecture you and collect the funds for their Benz payment.

Some experts say these noises are involuntary, but I think there's something deeper at work. Maybe it's our body's way of reminding us we're alive, or perhaps it's just payback for all the dumb things we did in our 20s. I did a lot of dumb things in my 20s. I jumped out of planes and went willingly into a war zone. It never got me the dates they said it would. I have discovered that women are more susceptible to creaks and cracks than medals and bravados.

Who knew?

I've started to think of my body as an old lawnmower. It still works but sputters and groans whenever you try to start it. My father had a trick with old lawnmowers to get them to start that involved shorting out the spark plug. Now, we call those vitamins and Viagra.

At first, I was embarrassed. With the proper childhood, you'll have learned to lay low, not draw attention, and never volunteer for anything. But then I realized something: everyone eventually joins the club. Even the young ones, who smirk now, will one day be the ones grunting and groaning just to stand up from their gaming chairs.

I was at a barbecue recently, and we all sounded like a chorus of disgruntled bears every time we got up to grab more ribs. It's comforting, really. When everyone has joints that crackle like a campfire, no one has any place to talk smack.

In the grand scheme of things, a little noise is all right. It's proof you've lived long enough to make it here, creaky knees and all. The younguns wander around blissfully unaware. We let them wander into walls simply for the amusement.

Life is noisy, and that's okay. Whether it's the cries of a newborn or the groans of a middle-aged man getting up from a recliner, every stage has its soundtrack. With creativity and attention to physical detail, you, too, can become a walking Frank Zappa soundtrack.

If I'm this noisy now, I can't wait to see what kind of racket I make when I'm 80. I'll probably sound like a haunted house. I'm pretty sure that I plan on haunting somebody; I just haven't decided who yet.

So next time you hear someone grunt as they stand, don't laugh too hard. Your turn's coming, and when it does, you'll be making noises too—proudly and involuntarily.

I'll have a cold Lone Star and a bucket of popcorn for the show when it happens.