Getting Old Ain't Too Bad (11.08)

Getting old is not that horrible – mostly.

Children, those little blessings, are the ultimate mirrors of truth.

“Dad, what’s it like to be so old?”

“Dad, have you always had so little hair?”

There are constant physical reminders. My knees are shot. My shoulder has a bone spur. I have hair and other things growing in places where they should not be. To make matters worse, I talk about these things with other “old people.”

We talk about the “good old days.”

We talk about our latest doctor visit.

We talk about who has died or is sick.

My wife and I are 40+ now and our kids are fairly self-sufficient, which has allowed us to re-connect on those occasional date nights.

Not too long ago, we were pleasantly surprised at being invited to visit a local dance group. This group gets together on a regular basis throughout the year to enjoy themselves, dance, and, in general, just have a good time.

As expected, my wife and I had a great time. We talked. We laughed. We enjoyed each other’s company. We enjoyed the company of others.

And, as expected, we did the next logical thing and asked, “How do we join?”

After we asked the question of them, our friends looked at one another and broke the news to us: While we were great to be around, we were just too old to join their dance group. It seems they only allow membership to those who of a certain younger age and 40 ain’t it.

Along with another “older” couple, my wife and I lead a church group during the summer that ministers to young people who are newly-engaged or newly-married.

One of the great things about being with men and women who are young is that you begin to feel young. Well, that is, until reality slaps you across the face. . .

Trying to be kind, one of the young ladies in our church group told my wife that she was old enough to be her mother. She meant it as a compliment. Really.

After graduating from Auburn in 1988, I had already come to the conclusion forever ago that I was way past old when compared to the young folks in college. I can remember my wife and I visiting a band party about two years after I had graduated and we felt like the creepy old people that hang around the fraternity house trying to re-live the “old days.”

As fate would have it, I was fortunate enough to take my two daughters to the first game of the 2008 Auburn football season during Labor Day weekend.

When we arrived at Jordan-Hare Stadium, we hired a Sherpa, who was kind enough to lead us to our seats in the East Upper Deck.

Of course, as you are climbing to the top of Mount Jordan-Hare, you pass by entrances to scholarship seats, box seats and other seats that I can never hope to afford. As such, the children begin asking the obvious question. . .

“Dad, why can’t we sit in those boxes?”

“Sweetie, be sure you marry up.”

We reached the top, sat down and I handed over the hundreds of dollars needed to keep my children in the manner to which they have become accustomed – allowing them the freedom to buy a food item anytime they felt like it.

Not too long after we sat down, two young ladies (18+), sat down next to us. One key factor in determining their age was their perpetual state of disgust and unhappiness.

Another key factor in pegging their ages was that they used a constant stream of obscenities for the short period of time they sat in our section. As my youngest pointed out, they used various cuss words that started with “s,” “f,” and a couple that I, frankly, didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t too long before one of them found themselves actually talking on the cell phone.

“Yeah, we’re here. No, I’m not having any fun at all. Oh my gawd, I am sooooo depressed. Because I am stuck way up here in the old people section.”

Ah, well, War Eagle anyway.