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April 16, 2005
I am an old man.
I've felt this way for years. I look at people my age (or younger) and wryly observe their lack of judgement, whether it's in regard to their clothes, music, or overall mode of being.
Yesterday, L and I were driving home after a visit to a convalescing friend. We crossed Geary Boulevard around the same time school lets out, where we saw a gaggle of teenaged girls bob and weave across four lanes of oncoming traffic to make sure they didn't miss their bus.
Squealing tires, kids screaming, flailing arms and legs, fuming drivers -- the whole nine yards. As we drove away, I said something curmudgeonly to L, and she said, "you are such an old man."
To which I replied:
"I just don't see the rush. There's always another bus coming, but you only get one pair of legs, you know."
Suddenly, I pictured myself on a porch, warning neighborhood kids away with a palsied fist and a apocryphal collection of confiscated Frisbees and footballs.
Mine would be the first house egged each Halloween, and I'd start every other sentence with, "in my day..."
As I suggested, I've always had the sense that I'm an old soul, or at least, not given to the flights of fancy that result in arrests, lawsuits or social alienation. My bad habits are prosaic and solitary, and have always been unlikely to attract negative attention.
Out for sushi with another couple the other night, my geriatric sense of what's appropos was a topic of convo between rounds of nigiri.
"I am so not a candidate for a mid-life crisis! Can you see me with a red Corvette and a 25-year-old girlfriend?" Of course, this invited derisive hoots, probably deserved.
For the record, I will not drive a vehicle enshrined in song by Prince, and I would never date anyone who's never owned a 45 rpm vinyl disc.
Color me shallow.
Posted by Your Protagonist at April 16, 2005 03:12 AM