I find looking at photographs of myself very disturbing. Not only would never let anyone with a face like that into my home, I find those hideous Costco passport pictures actually make me look good. But truth be told, I simply cannot believe that I am actually that old-looking. A recent wedding picture proved this point: I wondered why my daughter's grandfather was walking her down the aisle – and then I realized that it was me.
I say this because as you read this, I am "celebrating" (note carefully placed quotation marks) my fifty-sixth birthday. Literally, as in today. If you're thinking of sending a cake, please use a flatbed. I know it's my birthday today because I was I was there when it happened. In fact, I think it was even on a Tuesday.
In fact, it used to be routine that the doctor used to slap the baby as soon as it was born, something about getting everything going – respiratory and circulatory systems, in particular. Tradition has it that instead of slapping me, the doctor slapped my mom for having such an ugly baby. Okay, okay, I exaggerate – he actually slapped my brother when he was born – and when he got home, I slapped him.
Fifty-six-years-old used to be so old, so ancient. Now, it seems so young, so modern. I make sure I hang out with old people, just to maintain that young look. I even wear my pants halfway down my you-know-what for that "hip" look; but in all honesty, it's because I can never find my belt.
I can't tell you how many times I have been asked the ages of my grandchildren who are with me, when in fact they are actually my kids. I know I have written about this before, but it happened again just this past weekend. Fortunately, because I am mature, mellow, and mindful, I bit my tongue, refraining from mouthing off, as I would have at the young age of, say, fifty-five.
The other reason I bit my tongue because I was chewing the Metamucil pill too hard.
I have seen a lot of changes in these past few years – some good, some not so very good. Because of my penchant for words, I've seen some unfortunate vocabulary transitions, most of which you are only too familiar with. When I was a little younger, I had a completely different set of meanings for words such as hit, pot, peer, gay, queer, cool, and hot. A recent but brief discussion about "wearing thongs at the beach" proved to be quite embarrassing for all concerned.
It is sobering to think of what type of school I attended (public), what marriage was back then (permanent), and the type of television shows I was occasionally exposed to (clean). God bless all the teachers doing a great job, but school isn't what it used to be; any marriage that makes it past twenty years is a novelty; and good wholesome movies can hardly even make on to the Vision network.
Was it really better in the '50s and '60s, or do we just hear about them quicker? Probably a little of both, but methinks some things are clearly worse. Many of our civilization's greatest tragedies happened during the '50s and '60s. Think in terms of China, Vietnam, and Korea; try the letters KKK, DDT, and POW. Those were bad decades indeed.
In all likelihood, things are probably worse and getting worse, to be sure, but I still think we need to celebrate life the way it has been dished out to us. Education has never been more diversified, with so many options, namely, public, private, and home. Marriage and family life can still be long-term; it just may take a lot more work than in our parents' generation, because of the myriad distractions. And there are some great meaningful television programmes and networks out there; one has to be simply more discerning than ever.
The other thing is that growing mature (note the wording, please) is one of life's ten unchangeables. Acknowledge it, accept it, and adjust to it. You only pass through this life once, so you must make the best of it. And it's even better when there is a senior's discount included.
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