As my life tick-tocks away, my kids flaunt their Tik-Tok savvy
Those idiots who convince themselves that ‘40 is the new 30’, I wait for your bones to creak louder than the TV, writes Sbu Mkwanazi
Iblame you! Yes, you! You people who boldly declare “40 is the new 30”. I turn 40 in a year and a half but I’m convinced my internal clock is ahead by a few years. I have no idea why people get excited about getting older, but I constantly seem to be in the company of these morons. They rub me the wrong way each time they celebrate yet another grey hair, which they’ve taken to represent wisdom, but what really gets me going is when they start on about what life has taught them. Can I die now, please?
To me, it seems as if the older I get, the worse it becomes. My teenage years were a blurry mess of body-altering hormones, mixed with multiple failed attempts of trying to figure out what girls wanted. I’m still in the dark on the latter, and the former seems to be happening again.
Then came what should have been my roaring 20s, but this decade was characterised by choosing the “wrong” career path to follow at tertiary. This is all thanks to Mrs White, a career guidance teacher who saw a future in electrical engineering for me. Me, engineering? The same person who cannot replace a faulty plug without referring to Google? And even then, I still get the green, red and brown wires wrong. Mrs White, I am partially colour blind!
My 20s were also when I let loose and indulged in some not so legal recreational hallucinogens. But at least I can say that I finally found my calling, as I knew that engineering and numbers were not my thing. I was more of a letters kind of guy: LSD, E and MDMA. Luckily, after dropping out of engineering classes, I soon realised that absolutely everyone was right: don’t do drugs, and stay in school!
As I am in the latter part of what is supposed to be my thumping 30s, it feels more like a deflating balloon, complete with farting noises. When did I become that guy whose body has a sound effect for every movement? I don’t even get consulted on these things, as they just happen. My back complains every time I go up a single step, my fingers form a choir each time I try and put my fountain pen on sheepskin and my wheezy chest makes me sound like I’m catcalling ladies each time I breathe. Darn hayfever!
So then, toxic optimists, how can I look forward to my 40s, when the first few years have been less than kind to me? You still reckon “40 is the new 30”?
I’ve had a glimpse into my 40s and I’m not sure I like what my sangoma is showing me, via her bones. Every time I wake up, I’m met with a barrage of apps, online services and terms I have no interest in learning about.
Please take me back to my 20s, when “tick-tock” was what you said to your girlfriend to hurry up, so you wouldn’t be late for the 6pm movie at the mall. These days, my 13-year-old twin boys use Tik-Tok as a source of news, just so they can prove to me how old I am. How dare I read physical newspapers, trust verified sources and, according to them, wait for a messenger pigeon to get the latest news. The only bird they know is on the Twitter logo.
I received a notification from my eldest (by two whole minutes, as he keeps reminding his younger brother) to “twitch”. As far as I know, to twitch is what happens when I try and jog after a long day at the office.
It turns out this is yet another fad, a platform where you watch other people play games. I mean, really! Instead of doing what we did when I was young — play games — they now watch others have all the fun?
I’m not at all impressed by the impending life events set to take place right in front of my one working eye.
I am not ready for my kids to know more than I do. I find myself regularly asking them to assist me with menial tasks, such as our home’s Wifi password (which I chose), using a new device and online shopping. When did this U-turn happen?
Just the other day, I was chatting to these smart-mouths about various study techniques, and they told me they prefer the C.P.F. method. At first, I thought, they were referring to our neighbourhood’s Community Policing Forum, but I knew that made no sense at all. They later explained that it stands for “Cram. Pass. Forget.”
These are the very same geniuses who say that the day they run out of data on their phones, they will find the nearest hospital, join the queue of ill patients and then when they get to the front, declare that they are miraculously healed, as they would have downloaded a few Netflix series. I used to be the streetwise one, not them.
So tell me, I’m losing hair on my forehead and gaining hair in my nostrils and ears. I take forever to heal and I have an insatiable craving for rooibos tea. How on earth am I closer to the new 30?