Friday, April 27, 2007 7:48 AM CDT
Column: The older we get, may we all balance Gas-X with Superman
By PENNY WEAVER, News Editor
pweaver@jg-tc.com
I always knew I’d recognize in myself the signs of getting older. I just didn’t realize that after the very first indications, there would be more, and more, and more ...
“I still remember,” sings country music’s Deana Carter, “when 30 was old.”
Yup, I can relate to that line from “Strawberry Wine.” So, at 36, I may not be all that old, but the typical signs still are unmistakable.
One of the first hints involved the new noises emanating from my body. It seems as though I climbed out of bed one morning and suddenly my knees creaked, sounding something like a rusty old door hinge.
I didn’t realize humans over 30 need to buy WD40 in bulk.
Speaking of noises, I was sure that one thing that confirmed my adulthood — and my aging — was the addition of Gas-X to my medicine cabinet repertoire.
After milestones like that, I figured the shock had worn off and I’d already leveled out on this plateau of being older.
But it goes on.
I can’t even count the number of times I’ve heard loud thumping music emitting from a vehicle and thought to myself, “Why don’t they turn that racket down?!” Or, worse yet, “There should be a law against playing music that loud!”
Even if I go out for drinks with friends — and I could count on one hand the number of times in a year that I do that — I catch myself hoping that the place won’t be too loud. And I don’t want to stay out too late — even if I don’t have to get up early the next morning.
Whoa.
I see teenagers now in souped-up little sports cars, and I could swear they are only 12 years old — they look so young.
I accept some of these indications of the years passing by. But others — well, it just seems too early.
I read the Comics page in the JG/T-C every day, and I’ve grown fond of “Zits” and “For Better or For Worse.”
The dad in “Zits” tickles me when he tries to figure out a tiny cell phone for text messaging. I get a kick out of the mom when she is mystified by her teenage son’s one-ness with his flip phone.
I’ve thought to myself that the parents in “For Better or For Worse” are wise to downsize a bit if they do end up buying that smaller house down the street from them.
Hey! Wait a second!
Suddenly, I’ve realized that I now relate to the parents — not the teenagers or even the young adults.
Just when did that happen?!
I try to pinpoint the Turning Point. It can’t be my gray hair ’cause I’ve had that since I was a teenager. Sure, I have more now, but I’m a worrier, too, so go figure.
It can’t be a need to be responsible, because I’ve always felt that way. I am the oldest in the family, after all — and was allegedly so bossy when I was a kid that my three younger sisters called me their “third parent.”
You’ll note that I said “allegedly.” Humph.
I know my seemingly warp-speed aging isn’t due to the stresses of raising offspring, since I don’t have any. Sure, my Rottweiler and Pug are well behaved and polite — they never talk back — but the pet kind of parenting is pretty much a breeze.
Desperately, I try to hang onto what I can of my youth.
I buy Superman T-shirts and blankets and caps. Aren’t comics characters always an indication of the spry, the quick-witted, the blissfully young?
I get down on the floor and play kids’ games with my nieces and nephews. My verbal repertoire of vehicle noises — from motorcycles to trucks to airplanes to race cars — is practically unlimited. At least, it impresses 5 year olds.
Candy is ever-youthful, isn’t it? I have Tootsie Rolls in my desk at work, gum of every kind in a drawer, Smarties and Nerds and all kinds of sugary treats always close at hand.
I keep practiced at my dead-on Eric Cartman impression. I can sing the “Winnie the Pooh” song, and I know the Tigger song too: “The wonderful thing about Tiggers, is Tiggers are wonderful things ...” Surely those are talents that must be reserved for youth.
Yet the trappings of moth ball smells, too much polyester and impaired hearing keep creeping up on me.
My memory is hit and miss. Lots of times, I can’t remember things unless I write them down — so I make myself a note. Then I forget where I put the note.
My motorcycle may be a sign of youth — I hope — but it’s older than some of my co-workers. Let’s say those signs cancel each other out.
Shockingly, I often make what I think are common cultural references, and some of the younger folks I work with give me blank looks.
Come on! Who doesn’t know who Mr. Magoo is?! What real American has not seen the movie “Tootsie”?! Isn’t there someone out there who wasn’t in grade school when “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” came out? Anyone? Anyone?
Well, for crying out loud. I guess none of us is getting any younger. I honestly don’t mind my age: I look forward to 40 — I think it’ll be a lot of fun. It’s just strange to remember how you thought age 40 was ancient, and now at almost age 40, I feel anything but ancient.
Then I see some kid shopping in a mall and I realize that I just thought of someone in their 20s as a “kid.”
(Sigh.)
One of these days, I just might have to admit that I’m a grown-up. Darn it.
But I’ll not go quietly into that dark night. Age will take me only with a fight, kicking and screaming, clad in my Batman pajamas ...
... even if they do have a pocket for my Rolaids.
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llvllax X wrote on Apr 27, 2007 10:47 AM: