Getting Older
When I look back on it, I still don’t know where I went wrong. Rampant speculation leads me to believe that had I stayed in college, none of this would have happened. Sadly, it was not to be, and I am left with the harsh reality that I am getting older.
For a man, the change is shocking and subtle. The transition of boyhood to manhood is hardly substantial. As near as I can tell, a man is just a balder, fatter boy. There are some changes, to be sure. I have a tax-sheltered annuity now, for instance. The big things though haven’t changed, and I don’t think they ever will.
Fart noises are just as funny now as they were when I was in junior high.
Still, I have to admit, I’m not keen on the idea of being “adult.”
It didn’t really hit me until I was browsing through the record store.
When I go looking through the music store, I rarely have an agenda. I like walking up and down the isles, peeking in to see if there is something from one of favorite bands that has slipped under my radar, or finding the name of a band that I hadn’t heard of in a long time. I was secretly jumping for joy when the cute, young sales clerk came over to ask if I needed help finding anything particular. I answered honestly, that I was just looking for something new, and before I knew it, we were making small talk.
Game on.
I already thought this girl was cute, having seen her in the store before, but after talking with her for about three minutes, I was pretty impressed with her music IQ. Cute girls who know about the album “Mule Variations” turn me on. I can’t help it.
We had been talking for about five minutes. She was laughing, I was smiling. She began leading me down the aisles, taking me to different section of the store. In mind I was seeing the future. Together, this girl and I would go to concerts. Bigger, weekend long festivals like Coachella. We would wander together, holding hands, moving from stage to stage, listening to the bands and DJ’s. We would frequent smaller venues, never missing Social Distortion playing live at the House of Blues. We would have a relationship that transcended words, it would be a love built on music. In the light rain of a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert at the Universal Amphitheatre, I would ask her to be my wife, and we would kiss passionately as the band pounded out the chords of “Can’t Stop.”
My beautiful dream was quickly smashed with this one sentence: “I think you’ll like this cd, my dad keeps telling me how good it is.”
In the height of my grand delusion, I had failed to realize that this girl had taken over to the easy-listening section. I look down and to my left, to glance at the names on the tall, white place cards, and to my horror, I see I am sandwiched between Michael Bolton and Kenny G.
Fuck me.
When someone hands you "The Best of Sting" you know that you have died.
There’s no sense fighting it now. I am no longer a Masai lion-killer. I no longer travel with the rest of the tribe on the hunt. I am a village elder. I remain in my hut. While the rest of the hunters work long and hard, toiling for the thrill of the kill, I gather the young children and tell them grand stories of glorious hunts long past for me.
I have yet to fully adjust to my new role. I am still not clear about how escrow works. I have yet to itemize my deductions for my tax returns. My retirement portfolio is not at all as diverse as it should be. My one little piece of redemption seems to be that all the other adults I have met are just as clueless as I am.
For a man, the change is shocking and subtle. The transition of boyhood to manhood is hardly substantial. As near as I can tell, a man is just a balder, fatter boy. There are some changes, to be sure. I have a tax-sheltered annuity now, for instance. The big things though haven’t changed, and I don’t think they ever will.
Fart noises are just as funny now as they were when I was in junior high.
Still, I have to admit, I’m not keen on the idea of being “adult.”
It didn’t really hit me until I was browsing through the record store.
When I go looking through the music store, I rarely have an agenda. I like walking up and down the isles, peeking in to see if there is something from one of favorite bands that has slipped under my radar, or finding the name of a band that I hadn’t heard of in a long time. I was secretly jumping for joy when the cute, young sales clerk came over to ask if I needed help finding anything particular. I answered honestly, that I was just looking for something new, and before I knew it, we were making small talk.
Game on.
I already thought this girl was cute, having seen her in the store before, but after talking with her for about three minutes, I was pretty impressed with her music IQ. Cute girls who know about the album “Mule Variations” turn me on. I can’t help it.
We had been talking for about five minutes. She was laughing, I was smiling. She began leading me down the aisles, taking me to different section of the store. In mind I was seeing the future. Together, this girl and I would go to concerts. Bigger, weekend long festivals like Coachella. We would wander together, holding hands, moving from stage to stage, listening to the bands and DJ’s. We would frequent smaller venues, never missing Social Distortion playing live at the House of Blues. We would have a relationship that transcended words, it would be a love built on music. In the light rain of a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert at the Universal Amphitheatre, I would ask her to be my wife, and we would kiss passionately as the band pounded out the chords of “Can’t Stop.”
My beautiful dream was quickly smashed with this one sentence: “I think you’ll like this cd, my dad keeps telling me how good it is.”
In the height of my grand delusion, I had failed to realize that this girl had taken over to the easy-listening section. I look down and to my left, to glance at the names on the tall, white place cards, and to my horror, I see I am sandwiched between Michael Bolton and Kenny G.
Fuck me.
When someone hands you "The Best of Sting" you know that you have died.
There’s no sense fighting it now. I am no longer a Masai lion-killer. I no longer travel with the rest of the tribe on the hunt. I am a village elder. I remain in my hut. While the rest of the hunters work long and hard, toiling for the thrill of the kill, I gather the young children and tell them grand stories of glorious hunts long past for me.
I have yet to fully adjust to my new role. I am still not clear about how escrow works. I have yet to itemize my deductions for my tax returns. My retirement portfolio is not at all as diverse as it should be. My one little piece of redemption seems to be that all the other adults I have met are just as clueless as I am.