I Feel Old
I feel old.
Not old like “Hey Kids, get the fuck off my lawn!” old. But old like I’m falling apart. Just heavy-headed, hip-back-head hurtin’, what was I going to say next, Oy Vey old. But I’m not that old. I mean I’m too old to join the Girl Scouts but not too old to appreciate a little cookie now and again.
So what gives I wonder. It can’t be a mid-life crisis. I’ve been in the throes of that since my early twenties and this is different. It shouldn’t be a real health event. I just had my yearly physical with Dr. Jellyfinger and all signs point to not dead. I’m svelte, wealthy, and a sharp dresser so twenty pounds too heavy, broke, and slovenly shouldn’t play into it. (Actually, that may play into it just a little).
Maybe it’s just the blahs. I’m extremely frustrated over the new series “This Old Clutch.” The auto repair shop assured me they could look at the car Tuesday morning and then give me an estimate. The tow truck (as arranged by the shop) showed up at my house around 1:00p. They didn’t touch the car yesterday. I called to check a few minutes ago. They still haven’t had time to look at the car. Meanwhile, I’m spitting up $35+ a day to drive around in a menstrual-colored Ford Taurus. The mere site of it is enough to stop the flow of traffic. And, though this is simply the Pilot episode, it looks as though it may get picked up as a full summer series.
That’s it—frustration and the blahs. As long as it is not an impending stroke. (See if I put that in print, I can stave off a real stroke. It’s like a reverse mojo thing). Hypochondriasis runs in my family like so many springs. I’ve always done pretty well at not releasing my paper boats to those springs so I try not to think of things like stroke or tumors or cardiac events at 3:40 a.m. Well, I try not to talk about those things. They seem all too possible and in that sense all too apocalyptic.
I’ll place the onus on my Boy. He can rid me of the blahs if anyone can. He can certainly make me feel younger. Just last night before we went to his first baseball game, he wanted to argue in the car. He wanted to take his toy sword into the park to show his best friend B.:
Me: No, Boy. Toys aren’t allowed in the park.
Em: Why?
Me: They just aren’t. It’s in the rules. No toys.
[This continues for some time]
Me: Emerson. I said, No! I’m sorry, Buddy, but No!
Em: But I want to, Ryy-ann!!! I want to, Ryy-ann!!! I want to, Ryy-ann!!!
Me: (To self: Try not to laugh).
Actually, I’m not nearly so sorry as to put such a burden on the Boy. But then again, he needs no such charge. He youngs me up every day. Just the opposite of what one might expect. He is an exhausting and utterly delightful person. Last night at the game (Nashville Sounds), he spent two full innings acting retarded, making faces, trying to climb on the visitors dugout, trying to make a sword out of a corndog stick, and screaming at the players to “Go, Bay-beee!!!” We spent the next four innings at the onsite playground where he had an absolute blast. His smile is worth a thousand strokes.
That’s good for a dose of young. Suddenly, I don’t feel old anymore.
Not old like “Hey Kids, get the fuck off my lawn!” old. But old like I’m falling apart. Just heavy-headed, hip-back-head hurtin’, what was I going to say next, Oy Vey old. But I’m not that old. I mean I’m too old to join the Girl Scouts but not too old to appreciate a little cookie now and again.
So what gives I wonder. It can’t be a mid-life crisis. I’ve been in the throes of that since my early twenties and this is different. It shouldn’t be a real health event. I just had my yearly physical with Dr. Jellyfinger and all signs point to not dead. I’m svelte, wealthy, and a sharp dresser so twenty pounds too heavy, broke, and slovenly shouldn’t play into it. (Actually, that may play into it just a little).
Maybe it’s just the blahs. I’m extremely frustrated over the new series “This Old Clutch.” The auto repair shop assured me they could look at the car Tuesday morning and then give me an estimate. The tow truck (as arranged by the shop) showed up at my house around 1:00p. They didn’t touch the car yesterday. I called to check a few minutes ago. They still haven’t had time to look at the car. Meanwhile, I’m spitting up $35+ a day to drive around in a menstrual-colored Ford Taurus. The mere site of it is enough to stop the flow of traffic. And, though this is simply the Pilot episode, it looks as though it may get picked up as a full summer series.
That’s it—frustration and the blahs. As long as it is not an impending stroke. (See if I put that in print, I can stave off a real stroke. It’s like a reverse mojo thing). Hypochondriasis runs in my family like so many springs. I’ve always done pretty well at not releasing my paper boats to those springs so I try not to think of things like stroke or tumors or cardiac events at 3:40 a.m. Well, I try not to talk about those things. They seem all too possible and in that sense all too apocalyptic.
I’ll place the onus on my Boy. He can rid me of the blahs if anyone can. He can certainly make me feel younger. Just last night before we went to his first baseball game, he wanted to argue in the car. He wanted to take his toy sword into the park to show his best friend B.:
Me: No, Boy. Toys aren’t allowed in the park.
Em: Why?
Me: They just aren’t. It’s in the rules. No toys.
[This continues for some time]
Me: Emerson. I said, No! I’m sorry, Buddy, but No!
Em: But I want to, Ryy-ann!!! I want to, Ryy-ann!!! I want to, Ryy-ann!!!
Me: (To self: Try not to laugh).
Actually, I’m not nearly so sorry as to put such a burden on the Boy. But then again, he needs no such charge. He youngs me up every day. Just the opposite of what one might expect. He is an exhausting and utterly delightful person. Last night at the game (Nashville Sounds), he spent two full innings acting retarded, making faces, trying to climb on the visitors dugout, trying to make a sword out of a corndog stick, and screaming at the players to “Go, Bay-beee!!!” We spent the next four innings at the onsite playground where he had an absolute blast. His smile is worth a thousand strokes.
That’s good for a dose of young. Suddenly, I don’t feel old anymore.
posted by Ryan at 2:18 PM
4 Comments:
Hmmm...maybe it's a brain tumor. Or early-onset alzheimers. Oh wait a minute. That's what I've got.
It must be an impending stroke, seeing as your writing skills seem really heightened right now. I was "wowed" by your choice of words, especially "menstrual-colored Ford Taurus". Wow.
So look on the bright side! We are all going to be overcome with debilitating disease, death and decay.
I agree with mj, it could be a tumor.
I recomend several shots.
Tequilla.
Way to cheer me up, Guys.
Now I feel old again.
And terminal.
"Don't let Krusty's death get you down, boy. People die all the time, just like that. Why, you could wake up dead tomorrow! Well, good night.
Post a Comment
<< Home