Crossing the line isn’t always pretty

There are moments in life when everything changes. Graduation, marriage, the birth of a child, the first time a loved one dies; even something so trivial as getting a first driver’s license or first apartment can mark the beginning of a new chapter in life’s story.

It can be scary. To pass each of these milestones is to forego the likelihood of ever going back. Life, after all, offers no rewind button.

That being the case, you’d think people would be careful about the choices they make. And maybe some folks are careful. Others, like me, less so. If you want proof, I can give you the numbers of my ex-wives. They’ll set you straight.

I rarely even realize I’m at a crossroads until it’s already miles behind me and the damage is done. It’s a personality flaw (one of many) that has made for a turbulent, if interesting, life.

As a kid, these defining moments came and went with jarring regularity. My family changed addresses more often than most people change socks. It was rare that we lived at a single address for more than a year or two.

Both my parents had that old “wandering bone,” as the Creedence tune goes. I don’t know how old I was before I realized some kids lived in the same house and town from birth to the time they moved away to college or got married.

I’m sure there’s a sense of comfort in that, of permanence. But I never envied those kids. When you grow up nomadic, you get used to it. I did, anyway. It wasn’t until I was in my 40s that I began to wean myself from that Gypsy lifestyle.

I tried to settle down. Then tried again. And again. I’m still trying. To be fair, my efforts are improving. Those life-shaking moments come less frequently nowadays, due, I suppose, to my age.

I consider myself middle-aged; that’s entirely accurate, assuming I live to be at least 126, which is what I have planned. I suppose I’d settle for 120, but anything short of that and I want to speak with a manager.

At any rate, these watershed moments, though rarer than they were in the past, do still happen. I had one just last week, in fact. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but now I’m thinking maybe it was.

It was a Thursday evening and I was about as skanky as a human being who hasn’t been confined to a medieval dungeon can get. Hadn’t showered in three days, hadn’t shaved. When you work from home, personal hygiene becomes a matter of choice, rather than necessity. When you live alone, this is even more true.

I was fashionably attired for the evening; fuzzy pants, a T-shirt bearing evidence of the previous evening’s lasagna, old house slippers that look as if they’ve spent a year or two beneath a rock in a riverbed. I was, basically, all set for senior prom.

My mountaintop hermit ensemble and questionable smell were just fine for the evening I had planned: sitting in my easy chair with a good book and maybe some wine.

And then I remembered the ice cream shop is only five blocks away. I hate it when I remember that, especially after I’ve settled in for the night. Yet it happens more often than you’d believe.

Now, I do have a closet filled with laundered, ironed clothing, some of it stylish even. I could have changed into something more suitable for public consumption. Five years ago, this is exactly what I would have done.

Five years ago, I was still vain. I have no real reason to be vain, either then or now; I’m neither ridiculously handsome, nor brilliant, talented or personable. In truth, I’m just kind of average, as are most people. (Hence the word “average.”)  Yet somehow, I’ve managed for decades to convince myself I’m a dead ringer Brad Pitt during his “Thelma and Louise” days. There’s absolutely no evidence to support this delusion, but I’ve arduously maintained it anyway.

And part of that artificially inflated egomania was that I never left the house unless I was showered, shaved and shiny as a new penny. Just in case I was mobbed by legions of adoring fans. (This has yet to happen, but hope springs eternal.)

But there I was, skulking out the door and into the early evening chill looking for all the world like an escaped mental patient and smelling like a wet dog bed.

Who would see me, I reckoned. I’d be in the car. Besides, I’ve shopped at Walmart; I know there are lots of folks who walk around looking like I did on a regular basis. It’s not like there’s a law against it, right?

It wasn’t until I was at the drive-through window that I began to fully appreciate the line I had crossed. My Brad Pitt days were now irrevocably behind me; my Walter Matthau days lay ahead.

I suppose I should feel depressed by this rite of passage, but I don’t. It’s actually a bit liberating, this first small step into grumpy old man-hood.

All my life I’ve managed to roll with the changes and monitor my journey only through the reflection in the rear-view mirror. It’s probably too late to change now, even if I wanted to. I’ll just have to hope I can dodge those legions of adoring fans, at least until I’ve had a shower.

I’m getting pretty tired of geezer-fied ‘offers’

When I was kid, I loved mail. Mail was birthday cards, copies of the “Weekly Reader,” postcards from Grandma’s vacation and the X-Ray Specs I’d ordered from the back pages of a Superman comic book.

Then came adulthood. No more X-Ray Specs. No more birthday cards. No more “Weekly Reader.” 

Instead, I got offers from lenders enticing me to spend money I didn’t have and bills from creditors demanding I pay back money I’d spent already.

Mail was no longer cause for celebration.

But like every reluctant grownup, I dealt with it and moved on. I figured the worst was over. 

I figured wrong.

My mail in recent months makes bills and credit card offers seem like party invitations by comparison.

I know why this is happening. I’m approaching a certain … age. A decade marker that separates the kiddies from the geezers. Come November 26, I will be landing firmly on the McDonald’s Senior Discount side of that line.

My mail reflects this fact.

Last week, for instance, I received an offer for financing on a “Hoveround,” a battery-powered scooter that’s supposed to help transport my decrepit, wrinkly self down to the corner store for my weekly purchase of Maalox, T.V. Guide and lottery tickets.

Mind you, this offer arrived three days after I completed an 80-mile bicycle tour along the Leelanau Penninsula. I may be old and tubby, but when I’m ready for a Hoveround, jerk-faces, I’ll call YOU!

Likewise, I’m not interested in any fancy refinance deals in which some mortgage company gets my home when I croak. I’ve dealt with too many banks and don’t trust ‘em not to kill me in my sleep in order to collect the house, should I live too long to suit them.

And if I get one more “offer” from the AARP, I’m going to track down the young kid in charge of sending out the mailers and beat him senseless, just to prove I still can. Maybe they’ll take the hint after that.

The final mailbox insult came in yesterday’s post. It was one of those sneaky, little insurance company mailers that looks for all the world like a bill for something I’ve already purchased.

They try to pull this stuff because old codgers (like me) aren’t supposed to be able to remember anything. We’re (apparently) easily confused and therefore likely to just send money.

It’s insulting, is what it is. But not as insulting as the “Family Keepsake” included in the envelope. 

Said “keepsake” is nothing but a sheet of paper upon which to list your next-of-kin, an abbreviated genealogical history, and your “funeral and burial arrangements.” 

This treasured document will give your kids something to ignore when they find you keeled over in your rocking chair.

Lemme tell ya buddy, the funeral director who’s going to handle MY planting hasn’t been born yet! I plan to go down kicking and screaming shortly after pulling an all-nighter at a wild New Year’s Eve 2065 party.

Until then, what I don’t need is daily reminders that time is no longer on my side. What I DO need is something to counter all this ageist propaganda.

I’m thinking it may be time to order some X-Ray Specs and take out a subscription to “Weekly Reader.” As I recall, the print used to be pretty big in that magazine. Maybe I could still see it without my reading glasses.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

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.