I was stricken by a bit of an epiphany yesterday. Somewhere in the past few years, I became uncool, of course calling into doubt whether I ever was or if they were just delusions of coolness.
It began last weekend when a whippersnapper showed up at our door peddling alarm systems. We don't need one, per se, but the equipment is a bit dated and for some reason, the lady of the house invited the tike in for tea. (I think she thought he was her type from 20 years ago.) At any rate, he told us of his studies in college and proclaimed that he didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up. Without missing a beat the words "when I was your age" came out of my mouth as though I was some mountaintop guru having vague yet fond recollections of being a sophomore in college. I went on to lament the tragedy of having to decide what we wanted to be as adults when we didn't even know who we were or what interested us. All that interested me at that age were girls, cars, and money. Well, mostly figuring out how to get all of the the above.
My hopes of being a fighter pilot in the USAF via ROTC crashed and burned that first semester when my vision went from beyond perfect to not so much. I was told I could still fly back seat or do anything else, but with no throttle or yoke, my interest quickly diminished. I had no idea of my artistic capabilities or interest in quantum physics or mechanical engineering back then, so I opted for the Speech Communication, Finance, Management track. Speech Comm was great but for the fact that I had no idea what I would do with it. Finance and Management? ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. But hey, the money was good for 16 years. Well, more like 11. Banking wasn't very lucrative even when the industry was at its prime.
So here I sit, 18 years later looking at this youngster with nary a care in the world other than whether we'd agree to have this nifty new alarm system installed. Insert heavy sigh here.
My favorite morning show added a new assistant producer yesterday that some are saying will be more like a co-host. Her name is Meredith, but I'm sure she'll get a fitting nickname like Skankho in no time. I went to her bio on the show's website to discover that she's a relatively attractive 20-something party chick. There are some 30 photos of her doing what most unwed 20-somethings do best. Partying. I also noticed that she hung out with plump chicks. I guess that's her way of ensuring she's always the hottest in the group.
I remarked last night that I can't even recall the last time I felt like partying like that much less actually did. If it's past Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, I'm happy to still be awake, much less shaking my now-larger booty on a dance floor. I have images of Flubber and Fat Albert in my mind as I give thought to myself dancing to anything but Lawrence Welk's Anthology. I hate Meredith. And Alarm Boy - Caped Crusader of Wireless Alarms.
But more than that, I hate having realized that I've gotten to that point where my cool factor is pretty much shot. I think I only THINK that I am stylish and fashionable now. In truth, I'm probably like every other nearly-40 dude give or take a few inches on the waist. In fact, I'm probably like the dude in the link below: at a concert because it used to be fun, but wearing ear plugs because I'd like to retain what's left of my hearing, wearing cheap-ass WalMart shoes because, well, they were cheap. And wearing a doofy looking cap on my head because all the 20 year-old skater dudes do and they seem to be "all the rage."
Having firmly established this latest epiphany, all I can say is, "fetch me my shawl."