Getting older is tough, but nobody told us about these parts

I knew aging would be hard, because I always heard old people talking about it.

"Getting old isn't for wimps," they'd say, as they complained about something that seemed wimpy.

Older people groaned when they stood. They walked slower. They couldn't hear things as well. They would say (always laughing, as if they invented the line), "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself." Hah hah hah.

That wasn't going to happen to me. I would take care of myself when I was young. Also, I knew what to expect, so I wouldn't be surprised.

I was ready for my hearing to get worse.

I was ready for gray hair (although not in my 30s, when it started).

I was prepared to need more naps and for arthritis to hurt my hands.

But nobody told me about the most obvious signs of getting older.

As a public service for those of you who consider yourself young, here are three surprising things about getting older.

• Your legs get stiff quickly. When I was young, I could drive three or four hours, get out, stretch my legs for a few minutes and feel fine. Now? I drive 45 minutes (45 minutes!) and when I get out of my car, it feels like I've been behind the wheel for 12 nonstop hours. My legs feel tight. What the heck? I exercise regularly. My legs are fine. Nobody told me this.
• Handrails are extremely valuable. While I haven't fallen (or even come close) while descending stairs, going down them is way more jarring than it used to be. I need at least a flight of stairs before I have any bounce in my legs, so where did the muscle (or ligaments or tendons or whatever gives you bounce) go? Sometimes it feels like I'm descending stairs on stilts. Handrails are suddenly important and I am always ready to grab them. Nobody told me this.
• Toilet breaks are part of every decision. This is the most consistent factor in my daily life: If I'm going to drive across town, maybe I should go to the bathroom first. I'm going to take a nap? Let me make a quick trip to the bathroom. Going for a short walk? I'll visit the bathroom first. Time to eat? Maybe I'll visit the bathroom first. Planning to watch an hour-long TV show? Hold on, let me go to the bathroom. Need to walk across the room? Well, as long as I'm up, let me hit the bathroom. Nobody told me this.

There are plenty of other things about aging. It's harder to read small print. Characters on TV mumble too much. If I'd known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself.

Hah hah hah.

There are more aging tips, but let me visit the bathroom first.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Brady Bunch home price had to change (like Peter's voice)

How could the "Brady Bunch" home be such a flop on the real estate market?

Maybe the real estate agent had an unlucky tiki from Hawaii? Maybe Buddy Hinton mocked potential buyers? Maybe people were afraid they could only eat pork chops and applesauce if they moved in?

Whatever the reason, the "Brady Bunch" house in Studio City–or the house that stood as the exterior model for the iconic TV show 50 years ago and was recently remade to match the interior shots (filmed at a studio)–recently sold for a fraction of its asking price.

That house, presumably paid for by Mike Brady's income as an architect (don't lose those plans at the theme park, or you might lose your job, Mike!), recently sold for $3.2 million. Now, that's surely enough for Mike and Carol to pay for counseling for six adults whose their childhood home lacked a bathroom and whose beloved pets (Tiger and Fluffy) both disappeared without comment after Season 1. However, the sales price was just a fraction of the $5.5 million asking price.

Surely a home visited by Davy Jones, Joe Namath, Don Drysdale and Johnny Bravo should be worth at least $4 million. (My view may be obscured by the fact that no famous person ever visited my childhood house, unless one of my sisters' boyfriends became a famous serial killer or something. Which is a definite possibility.)

The home has an interesting history. It was built in 1959, which was when Greg was 3, Peter was a newborn and the Brady men were living there with Mike and their soon-to-be deceased mom, whom they pretended never existed (one theory: the first Mrs. Brady was a Russian spy who didn't die, but "disappeared" and the family was told to never talk about it).

After the show ended, the interior of the home (never actually shown on TV) continued to evolve to modern styles (like when Mike switched to a perm hairstyle). In 2018, HGTV purchased the house and used it as the site of "A Very Brady Remodel," in which the home was remade to look like the interior shots from the TV show. That entailed adding a second floor, which was lacking (and necessary for Peter to fool around and break Carol's beloved vase).

When the home again went on the market, the owners and real estate agents obviously thought it would bring a large offer. They probably also thought "George Glass" was really Jan's boyfriend and that Peter and Bobby really saw a UFO in the backyard.

Heck, Bobby and Cindy had a better chance at breaking the world record on the seesaw than the owners had of getting the full asking price.

Still, the owners presumed that in a world where Marilyn Monroe's "subway dress" sold for more than $5 million and Michael Jackson's jacket from the "Thriller" video went for nearly $2 million, there would be some rich baby boomer who wanted to own a famous house with orange Formica counters and a brick wall with appliances (some of which were decorative only) in the kitchen.

They should have known better: As Mike Brady once told Bobby after the youngest son bragged about knowing Joe Namath, "When you bluff, someone may call you on it."

Of course, there's possibly another reason the home sold for so far below the asking price: Maybe there were significant problems and tattle-tale Cindy couldn't keep her mouth shut. If that's the case, even someone with eyes as bad as Jan's could have seen a price drop coming.

In the end, HGTV got $3.2 million, not $5.5 million. It turns out the high price wasn't much more than a hunch.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Unfortunately, some life skills (burping, skipping rocks, spitting) aren't universal

I can't spit.

Oh, sure, I can project saliva from my mouth, but not in a way that consistently clears my chin. It's a "skill" I lack (and which I lamented early in life, attributing it to the fact that I had only sisters and that my dad didn't spit).

Spitting is a taken-for-granted life skill by those who have such abilities.

Does it matter? Not really. But many (most?) of us go through life having at least one or two things that others do easily and we can't.

I'm not talking about playing a guitar or doing math in our head or being able to touch a basketball rim. I'm talking about basic life skills that we take for granted.

Here are eight of them:

8. Snapping fingers. How hard is this? Well, maybe answer this: How would you describe how to snap fingers to someone who can't? "Just rub your thumb and a finger together quickly?" Something else? (Note: I've largely lost this ability as arthritis has sapped my knuckles, which is pathetic. How hard is it to snap? Fairly hard these days).

7. Raising a single eyebrow. This was highlighted 20 years ago by The Rock and indicates disbelief or machismo – I think. It's easy if you know how to do it, (I do). It's impossible if you don't know how to do it (Mrs. Brad doesn't. Her efforts to do so result in her screwing up her face and both eyebrows raising the same).

6. Skipping rocks. I guess this is an athletic achievement, but there are people who can throw a ball hard who can't skip rocks and there are others who can barely throw, but can skip rocks. Again, how would you describe how to do this? "Just bounce the rock across the surface of the water?" Easier said than done, apparently.

5. Rolling your tongue. The only thing I remember from my biology class in college was that genetics determine whether you can make a tunnel of sorts with your tongue. Oh, I remember another thing: When the professor said that, everyone in the room tried to roll their tongue.

4. Loud whistling. The ability to quickly whistle loudly to get attention is admirable (and irritating), but not automatic. Many of us have tried to whistle loudly, only to have a meek whistle escape our lips. That's embarrassing.

3. Cracking knuckles. I can't do this. I've never have been able to do this, while my friends confidently pop their knuckles and look smug. Or that's my interpretation of them.

2. Burping. The stereotype persists of the dumb college-age guy belching on command (maybe to a song as his friends laugh? Maybe with an incredible lack of self-awareness?). But we all burp – unless you don't know how. I've been able to burp since early elementary school, but I couldn't tell you how to do it.

1. Spitting. The ability to be cool and spit isn't as important as in cowboy days (I can't imagine surviving in the Wild West without being to spit) but from experience, I can tell you that rolling with your 13-year-old friends and having spit trickle down your chin isn't great.

The fact that I can't do two of the top three items on my list proves the Rolling Stones were right: You can't always get what you want (spitting, cracking knuckles) but if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need (rolling your tongue, burping, raising a single eyebrow).

It's a snap (unless you can't do that).

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Casual clothing rules at workplaces, just like the DR in the 1990s

How do you dress for work? If you wear "business casual" or "casual street clothes," you're in the majority, according to a Gallup poll conducted in August.

According to Gallup, 41% of respondents said they wear "business casual" clothing, which the survey-takers described as clothing such as blouses, dress pants, dressy jeans or skirts for women. Gallup described "casual street clothes" for women as things like casual jeans, T-shirts or leggings.

I'm a guy and I presume business casual means slacks and a collared shirt. Casual street clothes to me would be . . . I don't know. Maybe casual jeans, T-shirts or leggings? I've never heard clothes described as "casual street clothes" and that's despite occasionally being in the room  while Mrs. Brad watches "Project Runway," where designers dress their models in papier-mâché dunce caps and sleeves that connect their arms to their shoes.

Back to work clothes: The biggest shift since 2019 (according to Gallup) is a dramatic drop in the percentage of respondents who wear business professional, which is "suit or equivalent" for both men and women. Was there some landmark event that happened between 2019 and 2023 to explain the cause? I mean other than the Dodgers winning a fluke World Series after a 2020 baseball season that was cut short.

The main point of the Gallup survey is that most workplaces – Gallup included "uniforms" as a possible answer, so this survey appears to cover restaurants, offices, the military, schools, professional sports, etc. – embrace casual dress.

What a difference from my childhood. My dad was an accountant and he wore a suit to work. Slacks, jacket, tie. He wore shiny shoes. He had one of those Dick Tracy-type raincoats for bad weather (and I grew up in Eureka, so he took that raincoat to work about 200 days a year).

My friends' dads had a variety of jobs, but almost all of them wore suits or uniforms. They worked at the mills or were plumbers or worked in a nursery. They all wore suits or uniforms. My friends' moms who worked all wore dresses (or pantsuits if they were "liberated").

There was no "business casual" in the 1970s as far as I knew. Of course, as far as I knew, nobody's dad was cheating on their mom. As far as I knew, drunk driving was funny and smoking wasn't too bad. It was the 1970s, man.

My current workplace is business casual. I generally wear jeans and a collared shirt, although T-shirts are OK. When I started there in 2014, slacks were required, so times have changed.

Most of my career at the Daily Republic was as a sports editor, so my staff and I all wore a uniform. Well, kind of. We generally dressed in shorts and either a T-shirt or a jersey. And basketball shoes.

It was fantastic, but at one point, management decided we should dress "professionally," That meant someone would cover a softball game or track meet in a 100-degree heat and have to wear pants and a collared shirt, which made them the only person in attendance dressed that way.

Finally, management relented and let us resume dressing like slobby college kids.

Turns out that Daily Republic management in the 1990s was just ahead of its time. Relenting to allow casual dress (if jorts, a second-hand New York Giants football jersey and Nikes is "casual") simply put them 30 years ahead of their time.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

How my enthusiastic idea nearly led to a massive forest fire

In retrospect, it was a terrible idea.

In retrospect, another adult should have seen the problem coming.

In retrospect, I was 19, so I wouldn't have listened to them.

I was nearly responsible for starting a fire that could have burned thousands of acres of Northern California forest. Thousands of acres! And it would have been hard to mount a defense for my negligence: My only legal defense would have been enthusiasm.

I was 19, but my lack of judgment could create chaos. Not a terribly lofty position, but one where they turned me loose.

I was the activities director at a church summer camp – responsible for planning all activities, games and entertainment for a full week for about 100 junior high and high school students deep in the woods, where they stayed eight-to-a-cabin in rustic lean-tos.

I'd been a camper there – it was where I'd become a Christian a few years earlier – and was a camp counselor the year before. This time, I was "promoted" to activities director, mostly because of my enthusiasm and energy. Mrs. Brad – my girlfriend at that time, so not yet Mrs. Brad – was a counselor.

It was a fun job if you like running around and having a bullhorn (I liked both). It was 16 hours a day of mustering enthusiasm, organizing camp games (dodgeball, water balloon volleyball, tug-of-war, kickball) and being the emcee for the evening entertainment.

The week went pretty well (except when Mrs. Brad got irritated when I decided to be the "chair umpire" for volleyball and stacked several milk crates on top of each other to put me about 10 feet in the air, showing off).

Until the "Camp Olympics."

I was a sports fan. I'd participated in Camp Olympics as a camper and counselor. I wanted this event to be a memorable spectacle for the kids. I wanted it to be like the real Olympics.

What kicks off the real Olympics? The Olympic torch, of course. People carry the torch for miles and miles and miles, ultimately lighting a cauldron at the site of the real Olympics.

We could do that! (You're an adult. You recognize this is a bad idea)

I enlisted one of the kids – a high school cross-country runner – as the "torch bearer." He'd run into camp with the torch while I was explaining the games to the rest of the campers. (You're an adult. You see the problem.)

A torch? Simple: We'd find a stick, soak some old rags in gasoline, wrap them around the stick and light them. It would be a perfect torch! He could run through the dried forest with it. (You're an adult. Where were you when I was 19 and proposing this idea?)

The inevitable happened. As the kid ran, pieces of burning cloth fell into the bushes, starting small brush fires. Then more. He didn't know he was igniting a series of fires, so he kept running.

Fortunately, several of my friends – working as dishwashers/security guards/lifeguards/gofers – saw what was happening. They raced to fill buckets with water (we didn't have much. There was just a tower with several hundred gallons of water), then ran to douse the flames. They used blankets to snuff other flames. Brushfires kept starting.

I saw what was happening and did what came naturally: I panicked and prayed for intervention.

Somehow, the fire was put out. (I attribute it to divine intervention. And fast-thinking friends.)

The Olympics went on. Kids sprinted across rocky fields holding eggs on spoons, raced piggy-back into the swimming hole, downed gross food and played ping-pong and disc golf. One team, presumably, won.

At the end of the day, the only people who realized how close I came to starting a huge fire in the Northern California forests were my dishwasher friends, me and a few adults (who should have warned me).

The lesson? Enthusiasm is great, but it needs wisdom. Also, never underestimate the power of divine intervention.

And your friends.

Also, a 10-foot-high milk crate tower is awesome.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.