About getting better with age:

&uot;You’re not getting older, you’re getting better.&uot;

Everyone who has reached a certain age has heard it.

Do we really improve with age like a fine wine?

Antiques increase in value as they age.

A dead skunk smells a little less vile with the passage of time.

So some things do get better with age.

Others progress into functional obsolescence.

I think I can safely assume that we all want to become better.

If we are getting better all the time, maybe the problem is that we just don’t test well?

It takes no time to grow old. We are becoming older, but are we becoming better?

I guess it depends on how you define better.

As a man, I can speak only as to how age impacts a man.

As we get older, our abilities to date cheerleaders and to eat spicy food certainly diminish.

On the other hand, our abilities to discuss medical procedures and to become masters at useless trivia are enhanced.

We definitely become better at some things.

We suddenly are able to use coupons and to demand refunds.

These were things that our

younger selves found much too embarrassing.

We take naps.

Oh, we took naps before we reached a certain age.

The difference is that now we admit to taking naps.

Before this, we followed the young man’s credo that applies to pretty much everything, &uot;Deny, deny, deny.&uot;

We find it easy to take a nap.

The first TV commercial featuring credit cards or feminine hygiene products could just as well be Mister Sandman.

The louder the commercials blare, the better we sleep.

We are able to eat more disgusting things like lutefisk and er, uh … lutefisk.

This is because most of our discriminating taste buds have died and the ones that are left just don’t care anymore.

We can eat anything thanks to stretch pants.

We increase our vocabulary by throwing in phrases like, &uot;Let’s watch The Weather Channel,&uot; &uot;At

least you still have your health,&uot; &uot;I need glasses to find my glasses,&uot; &uot;He doesn’t know diddly-squat&uot; and &uot;You young whippersnapper.&uot;

We try to fool anyone who is younger than we are that wisdom really does come with age by uttering proclamations that sound so incredibly profound to our ears.

They probably don’t sound quite so insightful to ears without so much age to them.

&uot;Life is like a roll of toilet paper.

The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.&uot;

&uot;I’m getting better at forgetting than remembering. Funny, I don’t remember being absent-minded.&uot;

&uot;Somewhere, Barney Fife is sitting with a bullet in his pocket.&uot;

&uot;I used to know everything, but I’m tapering off.&uot;

We crack us up.

We spend a lot of time talking to ourselves.

Where men who have attained a certain age really shine is in the ability to give advice &045; especially advice that has not been asked for.

We’ve been there and we at least attempted to have done that. We’re no longer willing to help you move things, but we’re more than happy to tell you how to lift things.

We offer time-tested advice beginning with the words, &uot;When I was your age …&uot;

We have become experts in automobile engine repair, even though we can’t tell a Phillips screwdriver from a crescent wrench.

We pontificate on how to save money on auto insurance to all who will listen even half-heartedly.

We are more than willing to give investment advice as long as none of our money is involved.

We offer home repair advice that would make Bob Vila violently ill.

We dream up new uses for duct tape. We drone on for hours on a mind-numbing treatise on the pros and cons of tattoos.

We become aging irascible curmudgeons who try to convince others that the secret to happiness can be found in the price of gasoline.

We relive the past because it’s better than worrying about the future. We share our experiences and advice in the belief that there are no sweeter words than &uot;I told you so.&uot;

Oh, there will be those who will call us pains, but I like to think of us as merely dull aches.

Sooner or later, we do get it.

We come to the reasonable conclusion that the world is run by grandchildren.

But does that make us better?

Are we getting better?

Are we improving with age?

I think I speak for all men when I say, &uot;Yes, we are improving with age as long as improving with age means wearing black socks with shorts and sandals.

(Hartland resident Al Batt writes a column for the Tribune each Wednesday and Sunday.)