Without warning, I think I’ve become Middle-Aged Man
My recent experience reminded me of the old skit on ‘Saturday Night Live’
I knew instantly that I crossed a threshold of some kind when I caught myself flattening out and saving a perfectly reusable sheet of wrinkled tin foil from a carryout food order.
At that moment, I felt my new age.
“Am I turning into my father?” I asked myself. Nah. It’s more likely I’m turning into your father. My dad died 35 years ago. He was just 50, not old enough to get old. Plus, I don’t recall my dad doing things that stereotyped him as a man of, well, a certain age.
Like what? Like saving used tin foil for future purposes. Or, heck, calling it tin foil.
Or putting a rubber band around a checkbook (which I don’t do because I don’t use a checkbook). Or keeping a random box because, well darn it, it’s a really good box. Or collecting napkins from fast food places and stuffing them into a car glovebox. So many of them that you can’t find your registration when a cop pulls you over for blowing through a stop sign that wasn’t there last week.
These new habits seem to creep up on you like old trousers on an elderly man’s midsection. Before you know it, those pants are hitched up almost to your chest, with your gut inside the pants, not the shirt. At that point, a belt turns into a nonfunctional fashion accessory, like a front pocket on a suit jacket.
What’s next for me? Keeping a box of Kleenex on my car’s rear dashboard? Carrying around my iPad like a new puppy? Giving unsolicited advice to young people? “Use sunscreen! You’ll thank me later.” Good grief.
I can see all of it coming into view since my reusable foil experience. It reminded me of the old skit, MiddleAged Man on “Saturday Night Live,” featuring Mike Myers and his middle-aged sidekick “Drinking Buddy,” played by the late Chris Farley.
“Hey, what are you looking at? You’re looking at my gut, aren’t you?” MiddleAged Man asked anyone who glanced at his pooched belly. “Well, I’m working on it!”
Middle-aged men know where all their appliance warranties are located in the house. You never know when you’ll need one. No one in the house cares about the dryer until it goes out. Then it’s a mini-emergency. That warranty now seems like Holy Scripture, doesn’t it? You can thank a middleaged man for that blessing. And for their curses.
Like what? Like their manicured lawn becoming their after-work mistress. They spend more time on their yard than on their spouse. And their garages become holy places, filled with ancient artifacts like weed whackers that haven’t worked since Middle-Aged Man debuted on SNL. Yet there’s always a new case of beer stocked in the beat-up fridge next to the frayed poster of a faded pinup girl.
“You know, you don’t buy beer. You rent it,” Myers joked during the SNL skit. “I know because I’m MiddleAged Man!”
I know what he’s talking about.
I know that the last square of toilet paper is worthy of peeling it off the cardboard roll. I know not to use a whole sheet of paper toweling when a half-sheet will do. And I know that someday I’ll actually use all those dried-up packets of ketchup and mustard that I toss into a kitchen cabinet — just in case.
I also know to keep a steady eye on our home’s
air conditioner thermostat, like a Doberman eyeing a favorite bone. “Did you put it back to 72? It’s not at 70, is it? What are we, the Rockefellers?!” (Saying “Rockefellers” is another dead giveaway.)
A friend asked if I started rinsing and reusing zip-lock baggies. I laughed at her remark, then wondered if I should start doing it. Singleuse plastic baggies are for the elite, right? Just shake out those breadcrumbs and — boom — it’s a new baggie, I say.
Maybe I’m just cheap, with no age-related tendencies? Or maybe I’m both. You’d think I lived through the Great Depression, not a pandemic. And yes, I still have an oversized package of toilet paper stockpiled in our basement. Just in case.
For the same stupid reason, my car is stocked with little clear sleeves of plastic cutlery from carryout restaurants, complete with tiny packets of salt and pepper. If we ever find ourselves at a family gathering with no forks or knives, who’ll be laughing then?
Last week I caught myself saying the word “skedaddle.” Who says that anymore? I guess I do. I later caught myself grunting while getting out of a patio lounge chair. And clearing my throat has apparently become my new mating call. I’m much noisier than I used to be. Every action seems to have an accompanying grunt, moan or sigh.
Worse yet, I’m now at the age again of playing lost-and-found. I’m losing muscle tone and finding belly fat. I’m also losing patience and finding people more annoying. Also, hair is growing from places it never has before. I fear of turning into that old guy who’s somehow oblivious to the forest of little white hairs
sprouting from his ears and nose.
Until I get there, I’ve come up with a handy comeback to anyone who gives me any double glances.
“I’m working on it!”