I’ve been thinking about something lately— It’s what I call The Geezer’s Paradox, and it hit me the other morning when I bent down to tie my shoe and realized I had accidentally entered a different geological era. I don’t know how long I was down there. Long enough for the coffee to cool. Long enough for the dog to file a missing person report. Long enough for my wife to ask, “Are you reorganizing the floor?” That’s the paradox right there. A geezer can get down. A geezer can get up. But a geezer cannot do both in the same hour without notifying someone. And the older I get, the more my body behaves like a committee that was formed without my knowledge. My joints have bylaws. My back has a mission statement. My left ankle has been on sabbatical since 2019 and sends postcards from time to time. I used to wake up ready to go. Now I wake up and have to negotiate with myself like I’m trying to pass a bill through Congress. “Alright, knees, if you’ll agree to bend, the back promises not to seize, and the shoulders will stop making that noise that sounds like a squirrel trapped in a vending machine.” And the knees say, “We’ll get back to you after breakfast.” But the paradox goes deeper. It’s not just the body. It’s the mind. I have more wisdom now than I’ve ever had. I also have less access to it. My brain is like a library where all the books are there, but the librarian is on break and the lights are off. I’ll walk into a room with purpose, determination, and a sense of destiny… and then stand there staring at the wall waiting for it to give me a hint. And the worst part is, I know I knew what I came in for. I can feel the knowledge hovering nearby, like a mosquito that refuses to land. That’s the Geezer’s Paradox: I know more than I’ve ever known, but I can’t remember any of it at the moment I need it.

I’ve always wondered how there can be self‑help groups. The whole idea seems to cancel itself out before the meeting even starts. If it’s self‑help, you’re supposed to help yourself. If it’s a group, you’re helpin’ each other. At some point, the sign on the door ought to pick a lane. You walk in expectin’ to find people quietly workin’ on themselves, and instead you find a circle of chairs and a man with a clipboard sayin’, “Let’s all help ourselves… together.” And everybody nods like that makes perfect sense. It’s a funny arrangement when you think about it. You’ve got a room full of people who all came because they weren’t sure what to do next, and the plan is to have them advise each other. It’s like askin’ a group of lost hikers to form a committee. They’ll have a lovely discussion, but nobody’s gettin’ off that mountain. And the thing is, nobody questions it. They sit in that circle, takin’ turns, offerin’ wisdom they found in a book they haven’t finished readin’. One person says, “I’m learnin’ to trust my inner voice,” and the next person says, “Well, my inner voice told me to buy a jet ski, so I’m not sure mine’s qualified.” But that’s the beauty of it — everybody’s confused in the same direction. It’s a shared uncertainty. A community of people who all admit, “I don’t know what I’m doin’, but I’m doin’ it with conviction.” And maybe that’s why the groups work. Not because anybody has the answers, but because nobody’s pretendin’ they do. It’s a rare thing to sit in a room where everyone’s honest about bein’ a work in progress. Still, I can’t help but smile at the name. Self‑help group. It’s like holdin’ a potluck where everybody brings their own lunch.