Wow. Been so long since I've put my name up in lights like this I darn near forgot how. Like riding a bike though; once you remember how to work the pedals the rest is gravy. Soooo -
I thought it might be nice to try to inject some levity into the swirling maelstrom of chaos and gnashing teeth that are the hearts, minds and websites of every Redskins fan everywhere these days. Laughter is good medicine after all, and everyone who loves the B & G could undoubtedly stand to be so medicated -- now more than ever.. To that end here's my concept, and what prompted it: the last month or so I've seen a steady stream of ads pimping TNT's new series "Men Of a Certain Age" every-freaking-where. Watch two innings of playoff baseball and you'll see a minimum 2-3 of these suckers. The constant bombardment -- TV's unwavering modus operandi -- got me to thinking. First I got down with the knowledge that yes, I am one of these cats, though out here in SoCal we're more likely to say Dudes of a yadda yadda. In the interests of time and type I shall call them MOCA's from here on out. Anyone reading this who is asking himself why can stop right here; to read further risks permanent cerebral hemorrage. Now where was I?
Oh yes. Men, or Dudes of a...you know the rest. The semantic difference is purely splitting hairs, but let's face it: most guys in our demographic are more than willing to do so. Splitting the hairs doubles their number, after all....
So anyway, I'm now old. Or getting old. I'm sure I never signed on for anythiing like this but it happened anyway, whatta ya gonna do? It snuck up on me, just like it does to everyone, but here and there I had a few of those "wow" moments when I finally got that I was now of the Geez. What's kind of cool about some of those reminders is they were oddly, amusingly ironic, which softened the blow I suppose. I have never been a hyper- vain mirror freak who would sell his immortal soul to erase a few gray hairs and some wrinkles, but I suspect that even if I HAD been I might not have spent the rest of the week sobbing uncontrollably after each of these little epiphanies.
I don't know if any of you really care about these "you know you're old" glimpses of mine, but I am definitely curious to hear about similar instances that my like-aged brothers and sisters might have had and feel like sharing. Shooting the breeze like this might take our minds off the state of our beloved 'Skins, if only briefly. Then again, maybe not -- but it can't hurt to try.
This thread is an invitation to throw out one or two of those "aww shoot" moments that revealed the true length of your teeth, and in no uncertain terms. By no means am I trying to restrict participation here to us MOCA's; indeed, If all goes well I figure a couple of hardy seniors will pop in long enough to snort at our sniveling self-pity and yell at us to stay off their lawn...and no doubt more than a few grommets will stop by long enough to laugh, shake their head and silently vow NEVER to let this stuff happen to them.
Uh, yeah....about that. Fear not, my younger brethren; it can and WILL happen to you. And that's not even the worst of it. I've heard a rumor that not one of us is getting off this rock alive. I know -- that sucks. Thing like that kind of glosses all the other stuff into fairly insigificant trivia in my opinion....so let's not waste any more time.. Without further ado, <drumroll> "You Know You're Old When....."
One day out of the blue I noticed that on certain mornings I put actual thought into where I would sit to put on my shoes or work boots. Where I would sit. One of the most take-for-granted things in my world was now being semi-planned....
A few years back I was driving somewhere in my van, by myself, rocking some killer 'Ryche (Om and Boone, among others, strike me as sufficiently familiar with the British Invasion of the 60's to feel me) when I suddenly needed to turn the stereo DOWN. Down. Just a little, but my gosh. This broke the streak of about a million and a half times I had told myself to be patient but a little longer, the day was fast approaching when I would install the most aurally devastating car audio setup ever known to Man. So you know, that was a little different...
Again, not sure when exactly this happened, but a while back I crossed the "Ma'am/Miss" line, which as I understand it means I can now use either without fear of upsetting one of the Fairer Sex no matter how young or old she is. Not that I CARED about this invisible line -- but the part about not having to do a lightning-fast mental calculation before the greeting or risk bodily harm is way cool. Everything has it's perks, it's just that some of them aren't readily apparent. That's my story and I'm sticking with it....
One more (for now) and I'll call it good. While I've had poor vision my whole life, or almost, for some time now I've noticed that my sturdy, reliable contacts or glasses don't seem to be doing the same trick quite so well anymore. Couldn't figure out why for a long time; I had just had an eye exam. my gear was current and in good shape....what was up? Struggling to read the Sports section one late afternoon I became aware of how much I was raising, lowering and tilting my head depending on where I was reading. Sigh. Fate insists on adding insult to ocular injury by requiring my use of bi- or Heaven forbid tri-focals from here on out.
In exchange I have suddenly, inexplicably started looking....err, not THAT bad in those half-a-foot wide, full wraparound Ah-nold on crack Blue Blocker shades. The same ones which, if I understand the commercial testimonials right, offer enhanced glare protection that results in making the naked eye more or less as powerful as the radar imaging of the Voyager probe.
And eventually look pretty, if not cool, at least not so GOOBER as they initially did.
Maybe. I dunno. I might not have looked with the proper tilt....
There's my opening salvo of completely unimportant, time-wasting self-absorption, my friends. Feel free to pull up a chair and do the same, if the mood strikes ya. If not, hey, that works too.
It is commonly understood that a lot of us fossils stagger around talking to ourselves, making this droll offering the cyber equivalent of incoherent muttering..........minus the sight of me shuffling around in my skivvies.
So you've got that going for you --
I thought it might be nice to try to inject some levity into the swirling maelstrom of chaos and gnashing teeth that are the hearts, minds and websites of every Redskins fan everywhere these days. Laughter is good medicine after all, and everyone who loves the B & G could undoubtedly stand to be so medicated -- now more than ever.. To that end here's my concept, and what prompted it: the last month or so I've seen a steady stream of ads pimping TNT's new series "Men Of a Certain Age" every-freaking-where. Watch two innings of playoff baseball and you'll see a minimum 2-3 of these suckers. The constant bombardment -- TV's unwavering modus operandi -- got me to thinking. First I got down with the knowledge that yes, I am one of these cats, though out here in SoCal we're more likely to say Dudes of a yadda yadda. In the interests of time and type I shall call them MOCA's from here on out. Anyone reading this who is asking himself why can stop right here; to read further risks permanent cerebral hemorrage. Now where was I?
Oh yes. Men, or Dudes of a...you know the rest. The semantic difference is purely splitting hairs, but let's face it: most guys in our demographic are more than willing to do so. Splitting the hairs doubles their number, after all....
So anyway, I'm now old. Or getting old. I'm sure I never signed on for anythiing like this but it happened anyway, whatta ya gonna do? It snuck up on me, just like it does to everyone, but here and there I had a few of those "wow" moments when I finally got that I was now of the Geez. What's kind of cool about some of those reminders is they were oddly, amusingly ironic, which softened the blow I suppose. I have never been a hyper- vain mirror freak who would sell his immortal soul to erase a few gray hairs and some wrinkles, but I suspect that even if I HAD been I might not have spent the rest of the week sobbing uncontrollably after each of these little epiphanies.
I don't know if any of you really care about these "you know you're old" glimpses of mine, but I am definitely curious to hear about similar instances that my like-aged brothers and sisters might have had and feel like sharing. Shooting the breeze like this might take our minds off the state of our beloved 'Skins, if only briefly. Then again, maybe not -- but it can't hurt to try.
This thread is an invitation to throw out one or two of those "aww shoot" moments that revealed the true length of your teeth, and in no uncertain terms. By no means am I trying to restrict participation here to us MOCA's; indeed, If all goes well I figure a couple of hardy seniors will pop in long enough to snort at our sniveling self-pity and yell at us to stay off their lawn...and no doubt more than a few grommets will stop by long enough to laugh, shake their head and silently vow NEVER to let this stuff happen to them.
Uh, yeah....about that. Fear not, my younger brethren; it can and WILL happen to you. And that's not even the worst of it. I've heard a rumor that not one of us is getting off this rock alive. I know -- that sucks. Thing like that kind of glosses all the other stuff into fairly insigificant trivia in my opinion....so let's not waste any more time.. Without further ado, <drumroll> "You Know You're Old When....."
One day out of the blue I noticed that on certain mornings I put actual thought into where I would sit to put on my shoes or work boots. Where I would sit. One of the most take-for-granted things in my world was now being semi-planned....
A few years back I was driving somewhere in my van, by myself, rocking some killer 'Ryche (Om and Boone, among others, strike me as sufficiently familiar with the British Invasion of the 60's to feel me) when I suddenly needed to turn the stereo DOWN. Down. Just a little, but my gosh. This broke the streak of about a million and a half times I had told myself to be patient but a little longer, the day was fast approaching when I would install the most aurally devastating car audio setup ever known to Man. So you know, that was a little different...
Again, not sure when exactly this happened, but a while back I crossed the "Ma'am/Miss" line, which as I understand it means I can now use either without fear of upsetting one of the Fairer Sex no matter how young or old she is. Not that I CARED about this invisible line -- but the part about not having to do a lightning-fast mental calculation before the greeting or risk bodily harm is way cool. Everything has it's perks, it's just that some of them aren't readily apparent. That's my story and I'm sticking with it....
One more (for now) and I'll call it good. While I've had poor vision my whole life, or almost, for some time now I've noticed that my sturdy, reliable contacts or glasses don't seem to be doing the same trick quite so well anymore. Couldn't figure out why for a long time; I had just had an eye exam. my gear was current and in good shape....what was up? Struggling to read the Sports section one late afternoon I became aware of how much I was raising, lowering and tilting my head depending on where I was reading. Sigh. Fate insists on adding insult to ocular injury by requiring my use of bi- or Heaven forbid tri-focals from here on out.
In exchange I have suddenly, inexplicably started looking....err, not THAT bad in those half-a-foot wide, full wraparound Ah-nold on crack Blue Blocker shades. The same ones which, if I understand the commercial testimonials right, offer enhanced glare protection that results in making the naked eye more or less as powerful as the radar imaging of the Voyager probe.
And eventually look pretty, if not cool, at least not so GOOBER as they initially did.
Maybe. I dunno. I might not have looked with the proper tilt....
There's my opening salvo of completely unimportant, time-wasting self-absorption, my friends. Feel free to pull up a chair and do the same, if the mood strikes ya. If not, hey, that works too.
It is commonly understood that a lot of us fossils stagger around talking to ourselves, making this droll offering the cyber equivalent of incoherent muttering..........minus the sight of me shuffling around in my skivvies.
So you've got that going for you --
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