Saturday, December 11, 2010

I turned old yesterday.

Age. It is only a number of times we've orbited around the Sun on this big blue orb we call Earth. Just a measurement of time.

We talk about how old we are, but it is really just a number. As I approach, quite rapidly I might add, the age of 40, I have to wonder how old we are when you're "old". You know, when you start dropping those lines when you say "Back when I was a boy". I never thought 40 was old (well, 39, but who's counting) until something puked out of my mouth yesterday and I had an out-of-body experience, wondering who the hell was saying this, and realized I was all-of-the-sudden, old.

This whole story should be prefaced by acknowledging that all this stems from my hatred for those fucking hipsters. You know them. Guys wearing girls jeans that are WAY too tight, wearing Oakley Frogskin glasses that we discarded 20 years ago, trying to be all hip and ironic, but ultimately come off like they're trying super hard and look like a bunch of douche bags. And to boot, they WRECKED the ability to ride anything fix-geared as if you do, you'll be seen as either trying to be a hipster or just jumping on the bandwagon, and even though cyclists have used fixed gears for "off-season" training purposes for decades we can't anymore thanks to those super-urban fucks (which also ties this whole thing into cycling).

So, yesterday, while I was at work, I popped into the bagel shop next door to get a cup of coffee. And not a half-caff, double-froth, doucheiccino, but just a coffee. And as with all places that serve cool coffee (not Millstone or Corner Pantry) there are people trying to be all hip and cool roaming around like cockroaches on last night's pizza. As I approach the counter to pay my $1.34, I see this guy in a skin tight sweater that hangs down over his ass, which was a good thing, 'cause his jeans we so small and tight that I am quite certain the label said Mattel and had a picture of Barbie on it and the belt (which was hip and cool too) was lashed somewhere around mid-thigh. WHAT THE HELL? I got my coffee and split before I punched him in the nuts.

When I got back to work I asked, rhetorically, why? We went from pants that were so big and baggy that it looked like your nutsack was dragging on the ground to pants so fucking tight and small that you couldn't possibly have a set of nuts in there without wringing them along with your voice into a dog-whistle octave. AND, when I said "I would love to see either one of those guys (baggy pants guy or girl jeans guy) try and run in those. They don't make any sense" I realized I'm old. That is it. When you and your wardrobe need to be sensible then you're old. Functionality over fashion. If the two co-exist, then fine, but otherwise function comes first when you're old.

I understand all the other whims of people younger than I. I get their love of technology. I get the music of today's youth. I just don't get their pants. I don't think I'm old just yet, but I'm getting close.

It's 1:30 in the afternoon. I gotta get my nap in so I can eat dinner at 4:30, catch a little Matlock and hit the hay at 7:30 or so...

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