Tales from the Old Side

I watched an old episode of Friends on Netflix. The one where Tom Selleck feels old. Oh, if you watch the shows they do have titles like that but that wasn’t the title. It’s “The One Where Old Yeller Dies.”

I had just been the designated driver for my charming daughter and her friends from school. They’re just making the changes from being little girls to becoming young women. I took them to their destinations and back and then my daughter flipped on this show that she is just now starting to watch and enjoy. Needless to say, in my daughter’s circle of Friends, I’m “The One Who Feels Old.”

The shit of it is, I don’t have the fancy car, or the cash of Tom’s character. At least, if it’s any consolation, I do have the dashing good looks and the hot wife, when she wants to give me the time. Mostly the hot wife is either doing things or sleeping. Last week I went with her someplace I really didn’t want to go, just because I wanted to be with her.  Sure it was torture, but I got to spend the time with her.

I got her a book. She hasn’t read it yet. I got her another book, because, why bother learning from the earlier episode?

I’m boring. I like the library, I like to drink (alone, as you may well know, but hard-earned wisdom dictates I have a two to three drink maximum limit), I like to read, I like to write, I like to clean house. Boring. I want to be the guy with the MONEY for the car but I don’t want the fucking CAR. I want to be the guy with the MONEY for the big house, but all I want to change about my house is to add a room with a couch and a TV and a computer and a refrigerator and ice maker, for me to use as an office, for when I want to be a hermit, or for when Mrs. M needs me to fuck off. She can hide with me any time she wants.  But maybe she wants a room of her own too.  To just rest.  And I want enough money to NEVER have to come out of that room. I don’t even need a window, because as was so beautifully phrased by Lin-Manuel Miranda “In The Heights” song “96,000,” “…the only room with a view’s a room with [Mrs M.] in it.”

Fuck.  I wish I wrote half as well as Mr. Miranda.  I don’t want to be in New York, unless I get to be “The One With Plenty of Cash and Free Time So I Can Choose to NOT be in New York.”

If I were a rich recluse…

I’d be a boring, rich, old recluse.  But I’d be up half the night and sleep until at least 9.  I might even develop a habit of brunch.  And please, no “early bird dinner specials” for me, unless I’m having one for lunch.

Yes, Chef, today I’d like a hot, buttered Belgian waffle with real maple syrup, two scrambled eggs with medium-hot salsa, a medium 12 ounce ribeye steak, fried potatoes with onions, garlic and mixed peppers, Tanzanian Peaberry coffee, medium-light roasted, and a mixed fruit salad.  And a very tall “Screwdriver.”  Anyone else hungry?

Or maybe I’d be able to be a superhero.  Not “The One Who Saves People from Muggers.”  No, thanks.  I’d be “The one who sends anonymous packets of cash or thoughtful gifts to good people who need it.”  I could keep on writing.  If I had enough money, who would give a shit that my writing is shit?  I think I’d stay anonymous, if at all possible.  Who wants to be famous just for being rich?  I’ll leave that to …names withheld.  I’m sure you know of at least one person like that.  Maybe I could be “The One Who Frees People from Ass Holes.”

Hmm.. How can I do all this and still stay in my “office?”

Maybe I could be both:  a rich recluse with a brunch addiction, AND the gift sender.  I could still be anonymous little unknown Deon.  After all, with my dashing good looks and devilish smile, under this disguise of actual class, who would ever recognize me if I DID go out of my “office?”

Tonight:  “The One Where Our Hero Goes to Buy a Lottery Ticket”

My daughter and her friends can laugh all they want  about how old I’m getting.  I’ll be laughing when they hit their 30s, or 40s, and their 30s and 40s hit back.  And yeah, I feel it sometimes.  But most of the time I’m “The One Who Still Feels Like He’s 25.”  I can stay up later than these kids; they have no stamina.  I only wish my wife still acted like she was 25.  Sometimes, though…  ::smiles devilishly::


One thought on “Tales from the Old Side

  1. I was at R;s a week or so back and his eldest daughter adopted another foster child who is ten. She was guessing all our ages. She said R was 77 (he’s 53), Mrs. R was 79 )he’ 55) and I am apparently 51 (I am 43.) Kids have zero concept of age, it all seems elderly to them. Just know one day they will be the “old” people and worthy of our mockery.
    We all think age will never happen to us yet it does…I consider my comeuppance for being so arrogant in my youth. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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