Being a nerd at my age isn’t so bad, really

It’s hard to believe how nerdy I’ve become in the years since I turned 40. I used to be pretty cool, honest. People who know me now would never believe that, but it’s true.

There was a time, many years ago, when I was young, thin (more or less), had a good job, and drove a little red sports car that was always clean, waxed and smelling of that stuff that comes in a little can and hides under the driver’s side seat. In conversation, I called people “dude.”

Now I’m not thin, I don’t have a good job, and I drive a ten-speed or my girlfriend’s Pontiac that looks like it hasn’t been washed since coming off the assembly line eight years ago. There are child seats in back for the grandkids.

My sneakers have holes in them and—I may be imagining this—I think my hair is starting to get a little thin in front. (I hope I’m imagining this; with a head shaped like mine, the best thing you can hope for is to cover it with hair.)

In short, I’m no longer cool, not by anyone’s standard.

Usually, this does not bother me. I am, after all, over 50 and as such I’m entitled to be as uncool as I want to be. I haven’t started wearing white shoes and plaid pants yet, but when I decide I want to, I’ll do it without the slightest twinge of embarrassment.

The beauty part of getting old is you’re able to be a walking middle finger to the rest of the world, someone who says, with every fashion faux pas and dinner eaten at 4:30 in the afternoon, “I’m old and I no longer care what you think, sonny! I got bigger things to worry about, like Social Security and kids running across my lawn!”

Still, some small part of me longs for the red sports car days, when young ladies swooned when I walked into the room and captains of industry came to me for advice on selecting presidential candidates. (OK, it’s remotely possible my memory isn’t entirely accurate on this topic. Let an old man have his delusions, will ya!)

But like I said, I still sometimes miss being cool. The transition from cool to uncool happened so gradually I sometimes forget it has taken place at all. Then I find myself doing something so momentously uncool that even I can’t ignore it.

Like playing Scrabble. On a Friday night. In a bar with a live band playing in the background and kids half my age hopping around on the dance floor like Whack-a-mole puppets.

My Sweet Annie and I both love Scrabble. We both like greasy bar food. We both like music. We both (OK, me) like beer. At some point we decided to combine our favorite pastimes and maximize our fun.

So we play Scrabble in a crowded tavern. I tip well, so the management and waitstaff don’t mind.

We look like nerds and I’m sure I sometimes see the kiddies on the dance floor sniggering behind their hands, but I don’t care. We’re having fun, and at our age, that’s more important than being cool.

Dude.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.