Seniors Moment

senior

Despite my youthful appearance and demeanor, I do sometimes worry about the sands of time creeping into my life and suddenly I’m an old man.  The uncomfortable grit of time is a sneaky bugger.  Like a day at the beach, you’re having a great time until you’re walking back to the car and notice a sand-wedgie forming in your shorts.

Sure, when I see pictures of myself I sometimes think ‘who’s that old geezer wearing the same clothes as me?’.  I usually chalk that up to bad lighting and bad photography.

…and I’ve been offered the ‘seniors discount’ more than once. Ouch!

The outward signs are there, despite my denial and generally immature behavior.  Aches and pains, white hair, taking a handful of pills each morning and night.  The usual stuff.

But I’ve started to notice less obvious things lately.

I find myself walking around with my hands behind my back a lot more.  Only old folks do this.

hands

Maybe that’s because during the Great Depression they were told to ‘look but don’t touch’. Maybe it’s about creating balance since old guys get a bit of a paunch and need to offset the forward weight.  I don’t know, since I’m new at this.

Something else old folks do that you don’t hear any more is whistling.  Old guys whistle a lot, but no one else does.   Maybe t’s a lost art, like cursive writing or dialing a phone. I heard a guy whistling all through the store the other day.  whistleIt seemed odd….and a bit annoying.  He was doing bird calls.  He was very good at it, but he wouldn’t shut up. ‘Whistle, whistle, whistle’…non stop! I wanted to choke him after the 10th bird call.

Apparently, having no patience for things is another sign of old age.

I guess the most disturbing trend are these things we call ‘seniors moment’;  when we forget what we were doing or go looking for our glasses while we’re wearing them…or forgetting your wife’s name when introducing her to your old class-mates (true story).

Even calling it ‘seniors moment’ shows that I’m aging.  I used to call it a ‘brain fart’.

Now, we all get them from time to time, right?  You do, I do, everyone does.  Start driving and get on the on-ramp to go to work when you were heading to the grocery store, or walk into a room and forget why.  Very common and very natural.  That’s just being distracted.

The problem is figuring out when it’s just a brain fart/seniors moment, or when it’s old age.  I figure the frequency of it has to be factored in, right?  If you forget where you put your keys occasionally, that’s just normal.  If you have to wear them around your neck, you might have a problem.

The severity of the forgetfulness is probably part of the equation too – If you forgot where you put your glasses, that’s normal.  If you forgot that you wear glasses…well, you might have to sell those aluminum pots.

I’m trying to keep all of this in perspective.  I haven’t forgotten where I live or that I was supposed to be wearing pants today, so that’s good.  I just wish these ‘senior moment’s’ were a bit less frequent, you know?

Meanwhile, I think I’ll stroll down to the Blockbuster and rent a Matlock video while I whistle with my hands behind my back.  And if I see a little kid along the way, I might do the ‘I’ve got your nose’ trick with my thumb.  Kids love that!

 

 

 

When I grow up

FREIGHT TRAIN

You know you’re getting older when you find your birthdays barreling down on you like an out of control freight train….and you can’t get off the tracks.

When I was a kid, I loved birthdays.  It felt like a national holiday just for me.  Lots of presents, maybe your name would be mentioned on the P.A. system at school, and you had amnesty from your parents for those things that would get you in trouble on any other day of the year.

Pretty sweet!  You just had to avoid the ‘Patty-Whacks’…that part sucked!

Overall, I still like birthdays, but the amnesty thing doesn’t work so well anymore, and you NEVER want your name called out on any P.A. system.  Flying under the radar is the key to birthdays when you’re old enough to remember life before microwave ovens and computers.

The trouble is, now I spend more time thinking of what I dreamed of as a kid and just how far from that path I wandered.  That sounds more morose than it is….I wanted to be either Spider-man or Bat Man.  I probably would have ended up as some sort of mutant 8-legged bat super hero thingy.

I don’t think that would have worked out very well.

I do spend time thinking of what I really want to be when I grow up, though.  I know, it sounds stupid coming from a guy past the curve of his working life.  I guess I just never really gave it a lot of thought.

I always envied those people who just knew what they wanted and went after it.  It didn’t even matter if that’s not what they ended up doing – just the drive towards something they could see down the road always left me in awe.

My plan was probably a lot like a fugitives – stay one step ahead of trouble.  If I could do that, I’d be doin’ all right!  It also meant that I’d probably never reach any sort of destination.  Not sure if that’s good or bad.

But I think I finally got it down.  I think, that after 40 50 something years, I can say with some conviction that what I really want to be when I grow up is….rich.

That sounds pretty shallow I’ll admit, but honestly, I think I’d be really good at it!  I’m a fun-loving guy, and I’m generous, at times, to a fault.  I’d totally share in my riches….tithe, volunteer, help my fellow man and all that – even throw pool parties and invite people over, or have huge barbecues and feed the whole neighbourhood.

Just to be clear, I’m not talking Warren Buffet rich.  That’s too much pressure.  In fact, I’m not even talking ‘personal jet’ rich.  Just rich enough so that I don’t have to worry about prioritizing work over play. Doesn’t that sound great??

I don’t want to have to go to the grocery store in disguise, though.  I will – I just don’t want to have to.

bad disguise

Frankly, I don’t know why everyone else hasn’t thought of that as a goal for life.  I guess that’s what happens when you have enough time to contemplate your options, and have worked long enough to know what you NEVER WANT TO DO AGAIN.

Now that I have that figured out, all I need to do is get rich.

Who wants to help me?

Seniors: Yard Sale Predators

senior yard saleThey start early, getting a jump on the competition.  Scanning the ads in the local paper, marking the good ones with a yellow highlighter, counting out the money in their change purse – hiding the big bills so as not to suggest they’re willing to pay too much.  Pulling out the map book and planning a route for Saturday morning.  Meticulously scheduled, their logistical prowess would humble the military.

Up and dressed before dawn, they set out in their beige Buick, tank full – trunk empty.  Like tea-cozy predators, they move with fluid precision through the neighbourhoods, staking out their victims before the tables are even set up.

The scent of musty clothing attracts them like sharks to blood.  Mixed with a fresh spritzing of rosewater, a frenzied, feverish rush comes over the seniors like a wave of Ben Gay joint rub, and it’s on!

The big Buick slows to a purr.  Only the constant melodic ‘tic-tic’ of the left turn signal breaks the still silence of their stealthy patrol.

The best yard sale veterans know that you don’t stop the car unless  you spot  something good.  Parking and walking around wastes valuable time and energy, so like gang-banging low riders cruising through East LA, they lower the power windows and ease up on the gas.  She slowly reaches across the seat and without even looking, gently touches his hand.  The silver-gray hairs on his arm stand up in excitement.

‘Stop’, she whispers, almost song-like.

He can’t hear and keeps driving…….”STOP!” she finally shouts.

The over-used brakes on the Buick creak the big boat to a halt, dead in the middle of the street.  Motorists honk at the sudden stop in traffic, but their protests are in vain.  The old couple have locked on to a potential find, set amongst makeshift tables made of wood beams and saw horses.

A treasured find usurps any traffic law.

“What do you see?”, he asks cautiously.  She says nothing, but reaches for the door handle.  It won’t open…he hasn’t put the car in park yet.

She throws a contemptible look at him.  He will pay later for this blunder – after their nap.

“What do you see?” he repeats, now with the Buick safely in the park position.

“I can’t believe it”, she says.  “Must be a fake”.

There on a rickety card table covered with a plastic checkered table cloth sits a set of clear blue candlesticks glistening in the morning light.  Beside them is a matching 4-piece wine goblet set.  The mother load!

Even with her advanced glaucoma, she easily spotted them from the moving car.  Years of instinct and practice have paid off.  The big wrap-around polarized sunglasses help, too.

She’s a pro, and offers the first volley as she approaches the display; “How much for the mugs?“, she asks, knowing that the answer is irrelevant.  She’s not here for the mugs.  She wants to see who she’s up against before entering the negotiating ring for what she’s really come for.

$1 each”, the friendly seller replies.

What if I want all 4 of them?” The crafty senior asks, testing the waters.

Well, they’d be $4 total, but I can throw in a Disney movie or a book for free if you took them all”.

They’re good, she thinks to herself.  Bundling to move more product.  Very savvy.  This person is a worthy foe, but all the best rewards are hard fought for.  Her husband leans in to hear.  He’s seen this seductive dance before.

“No thanks. I’ve already got too many mugs”, the old lady rebuffs.

While the husband distracts the seller with a shallow conversation about the cool weather they’ve been having, the old woman slides over to the table with the candlesticks and wine glasses.  She doesn’t pick them up right away.  She doesn’t want them to think she’s too eager.

“Hmm” she muses. “These tea cups are cute, but they don’t match my set”.  All part of the carefully choreographed game she plays with the unsuspecting seller.

Now the husband moves in close to her, suggesting they should leave.  This is her cue to reach for the blue ‘gold’ she’s after.  It takes all her strength to keep from shaking.  These are the real deal!  She can tell by the weight and the markings on the bottom.

“What do you think of these, Herb?” She asks, with a doubtful look on her face.  Betty Davis would be humbled by her acting abilities. He shrugs his shoulders in a perfect wing man tact – act like you’re not that impressed.  In reality though, he shrugged because he couldn’t hear what she asked.

Now she’s ready.  All week – the planning, the scheduling, the stops only to watch Jeopardy and eat some creamed corn on toast.  It all comes down to this.

“I’ll give you $5 for those dusty old candle sticks…and the matching glasses”, in an uncaring manner, but her loins quiver and a bead of sweat appears on her brow.  It could just be the heat.

“Well, I think they’re some kind of antique.  I was hoping to get $20 for them”, was the quick reply.

Foreplay, the old lady thinks.  This just makes the climax all the more intense.

“For those things?  They’re not worth that much. How about $10?”.  She tries not to blink as a curl pops out of her tight blue-rinsed weave.  Her husband has moved in closely, just in case her bum knee gives out on her like last week.

“Okay, I guess so.  SOLD!”

SOLD.  The old couple have waited all week for that one brief moment of pure ecstasy on hearing those words. SOLD.

He looks at her, and she looks back at him.  Their hands touch as they reach for their bounty.  Her soft, nearly opaque skin glistens against his gnarled hands, but at that instant, they breathe deeply together.

He pays the seller, and she reaches for a tissue tucked into the sleeve of her blouse and dabs her upper lip.  The big Buick barks back to life, releasing the traffic chaos it created.

Later, as they admire the new finds on their fireplace mantle, they fall asleep in each others arm chairs, while a rerun of Matlock drones in the background.

Next week?  The Flea Market.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How strong are thought bubbles?

thought bubbleHow terrifying would it be if your thoughts leaked out, and people could hear them?

Ever really listen to your inner voice?  You know, that imaginary thought bubble no one else can see? Good thing, eh?  It’s especially good that most of us have the self control to not utter these thoughts out loud – or worse, act on them.

It dawned on me today that my thoughts and outward actions are polar opposites.  No wonder my hair’s turned white!

Here’s what I mean – standing in line behind an elderly woman, fishing through her purse for change – my thoughts…

(Are you freakin’ kidding me?  You counted the same dime 3 times already!  Hurry up…not everyone is retired, you know!)

Of course, it played out pretty differently – she turns and sees the growing line of impatient customers and apologizes for being slow.  I say ‘No worries, take your time’.

You get the picture.  I’m sure hoping that my little thought bubbles are Kevlar strength, otherwise I’m pretty sure my tires would be slashed and I’d get egged all the way home.

But what if they leaked a bit?  What if every once in a while, people actually heard what you were thinking?  Yikes!!

Does anyone know for sure that our thoughts are fully protected from escape?  I mean, there isn’t any kind of written guarantee, is there?  Do they wear out over time?

Maybe that’s what happens when people get old and just say whatever they think.  It’s not that they don’t care any more, maybe they just wore out their thought bubbles, and now everything just kind of spills out of them like a leaky faucet.  Heck, it’s not just the thoughts that leak when you get old…okay, a little off topic there.

Maybe we need to test them once in a while – like you’d test your brakes before driving down the side of a mountain……’cause death will occur in either instance if something fails.

Okay, here goes:  ‘I’m thinking of a bacon cheeseburger.’  “Honey, are you hungry?”

“Maybe“, she’d answer. “How about a nice garden salad?”

“A salad?  Sure you don’t want anything else?”

“Can’t think of anything else I’d like”

All clear!  No thoughts leaked out…let’s try something a little more daring:

‘Those new pants make you look fat’“What are you wearing tonight?”

“Those new pants.  You like them on me, right?”

“Love ’em!”

Yup – super-strong bubbles!  No chance of leaks tonight!

Gotta love a sturdy thought bubble.  Tested and approved…now if I could just get my eyes to not sell me out.

Sunglasses!

The Faceplant

facebook logoThey must be handing out parkas in Purgatory.  This week, I joined Facebook.  Yes, welcome me to 2004.

Social networking has been one of necessity rather than desire for the most part.  Joining the awesome and exposed world of Facebook was a frightening thought for a guy like me, who uses this blog site as a semi-anonymous way to share deep thoughts and feelings (okay, sometimes not-so-deep thoughts) without losing control.  This can make for a pretty lonely existence – no disrespect to my current group of followers, of course.

Baring one’s soul to the cyberworld is an intimidating venture when you can’t just take it back, so I’ve put it off with lame excuses and procrastination.

The trouble is, when you’re used to 2 soup cans with a string between them (the kids will have to look that reference up), eventually there isn’t anyone holding up the other can, and you just look foolish talking to yourself.

But hey, I’m a modern, tech-savvy kind of guy.  Just because there’s a little snow on the old roof, doesn’t mean there’s not a hip party happening in the living room, right?  I know how to set up a printer and scan for viruses on my computer. I can link multiple e-mail addresses to my iPhone.  I’m in touch with how my kids talk and act – I just don’t understand them.  Facebook should be a breeze, right?

I’m 2 days in with my new profile, and I think I’ve already broken a bunch of covenant rules – at least that’s the impression I get from my 2 teens.  Lessons on an open-forum interchange like this will probably all be learned the hard way.  I didn’t even know there were rules.  I guess etiquette is a better word than rules, really.

Like a new golfer, it’ll be others who ‘shush’ you while someone is teeing off that you’ll learn from, unfortunately.

Here’s some that I’ve already broken:

  • Don’t ever tag photos of people who don’t want to be tagged
  • Don’t ever reply to a post that’s more than a week old
  • Don’t fill out your ‘timeline’ unless you know what you’re doing – I have a highlight about leaving a job a year ago….not intentionally
  • Don’t ‘friend’ your kids’ friends – you’ll see things you just can’t take back
  • Always think through responses or comments on posts before you hit ‘enter’

I’m up to 50-something friends already – whoo hoo!  Trouble is, I don’t know what to say to anyone.  Do I start sharing ‘selfies’ and posting photos of my dog sleeping with her tongue hanging out?  Does anyone else really care about this stuff?

Do I need to ‘like’ every inspirational message?  Sounds like a lot of work, doesn’t it?

Is there an addictive component to Facebook that I should be aware of?  I find myself checking it every few minutes.  This can’t be healthy.

It’s a pretty steep learning curve I’m on, but as long as I don’t get ‘unfriended’ by everyone before I figure how to navigate this new world correctly, I’ll consider this deep dive into modern communication a successful experiment.  It can’t last that long anyway, right?

‘Like’ this post, or I’ll start sending pictures of me hitting the ‘refresh’ button over and over again…

 

 

 

The Bus Ride

This blog is a departure from my usual style, but I felt compelled to write it.  I hope you enjoy it, or at least see the metaphors in your own ‘bus ride’.

When you’re young and just starting out, you begin a long journey that will last the better part of your lifetime.  Everything you learned up to now was designed to prepare you for a long bus trip, and almost all of us will take that ride.

You stand, excited and scared at the same time, with thousands of other people, young and old alike, waiting to get on a bus.  Buses of all sizes, shapes, and colours, numbering in the hundreds, rev their engines and vie for a spot on the road, or are parked to let people on or off.  You wonder which bus you should try to board, or perhaps more importantly, which bus will let you on.

You stand at the doorway to a bus you seem to like, and the driver may talk to you.  If they like you, they may ask you to board, and travel with them, hopefully to your destination, although that destination hasn’t been determined yet – at least not for you.

You may have to talk to a lot of bus drivers.  Some will close the door without acknowledging you were even standing there.  Others say they have to make a stop first, but will come back for you, but never show up again.

In time, you will find a seat on a bus that will take you.  The bus is crowded, but you locate a seat at the back that you will share with a total stranger for some time.  The air is thick and hot back there.  No windows – at least not clean enough or near enough to see out of – and no air conditioning.  It’s not pleasant, but the promise of a journey into the future keeps you smiling, or at least tolerating it.

The bus begins to move, and you watch as the busy streets blur around you.  Any sense of direction is lost to you, but you put your trust in the driver, and know that wherever you’re going, it’s better than where you were.

There are buses everywhere, big and small – some slow and broken, others shiny and fast.  Most are just like any other bus, though, and that’s the kind you’re on – conservative and consistent.  Just like you.

The bus makes frequent stops, and some people are escorted off, crying or yelling.  Others jump off as soon as it slows down, and run to another bus.  No explanation is given, and you likely will never see them again.  An empty seat becomes a semi-civilized battle with the other passengers, especially those at the back with little air and no space.

If they’re fortunate enough, someone will move up to the vacant seat, leaving a bit more room for you to stretch out and maybe become known as a good passenger to the few around you.  Often, though, the seat is stolen by someone picked up along the way that the bus stopped for.

Not fair!

On the bus, you get to know the other passengers around you.  Everyone has a different reason to be on the bus, but in the end, they are all  looking for their own destination somewhere down that long road.

Some might become friends, although most will remain ‘that guy’ who says hello to you every morning but you still don’t know his name. Such is life when you are traveling on a great journey, and you begin to realize that the expedition itself is as relevant as the destination you were looking for.

If you’re lucky, seats will become empty further to the front on this very, very long trip, and as you move forward on the bus, you become more well-known and liked.  You try to keep in touch with those at the back, but its tough. The air is cleaner up here, and you can actually see out the side windows, although the path ahead is still not fully in view.

You feel glad you got on a bus that could go so long without any breakdowns or getting lost.  You praise the drivers’ skills and work with the other passengers to make sure the bus keeps on the road, straight and true.  Life is good.

Eventually, after a long time, you realize that your destination, although still an extremely long way off, is actually closer to you now than your starting point, and everything you dreamed of for yourself is coming to fruition.  You have moved a long way forward on the bus, and can even talk to the driver occasionally.

The bus still stops, and people get on and off – either voluntarily or by force.  You don’t make contact with most of them, but a few promise to keep in touch.  Most don’t, though.

The bus has become home.  In fact, you realize you’ve spent more time on the bus than anywhere else as long as you’ve lived.

Some people have changed buses many times, but you, with the exception of a few quick transfers early on, have remained on this bus the whole time.  Even the driver has changed over the years, but the bus has stayed, more or less, on the same path the whole time.

At some point, you notice, however, that the bus has begun to move more slowly.  Other newer, faster buses are better equipped for the road ahead, and pass you quickly.  The destination is not approaching at the rate it once was, and more and more seats are now empty.  Fewer passengers are picked up to fill them. The driver isn’t talking as much as they used to, either.

The bus slows even more, despite the lighter load, and people start to whisper about what the driver is going to do about it.  You all trust him – you have to!  He’ll figure things out and you’ll continue on our route like you always have.  You got on the right bus.

Then one day it happens.  The bus stops, and as you look out the window to see why, you find that you are the next one to be escorted off, along with a few others.  No explanation, or forewarning.  Just a somber handshake and some tips on how to find another bus somewhere else.

So there you are.  Standing on the side of the road, watching the bus amble along without you, shakily heading to the destination that you were sure it would take you to. Shock, sadness, and yes, even anger fill you, and for a while, you can’t even think about getting on another bus.  Even if you did, where would you sit?  Where would the bus be going?  Can you trust the driver and the other passengers?  No – just sit a while and think.

You decide to stay and play for a time – stretch your legs and smell the flowers around you that you sped past all those years.  If feels good to do this, but in the back of your mind, you recall just how much further you still need to travel to reach your destination.  That thought is always there, lurking in the recesses of your brain, like a sinister shadow, threatening to step into full view.

The thought of the long path ahead becomes overwhelming, so you make up a little sign “Great Passenger. Hard Working. Respectful. Loyal. Will take any seat”, and you stand on the side of the road, forcing a smile, waiting for a bus to see you and stop.

Buses pass by so fast that you’re sure they can’t even read the sign.  A few slow down and give you a quick glance, but speed off without stopping.  You stand on the side of the road for a long time, wondering how some people get buses to stop and pick them up, but you can’t.  Is the the sign wrong?  Do you look intimidating? Are you too old……?

A few buses stop, and even let you look inside.  They have an empty seat, and need someone to fill it.  You’re dressed well, and are groomed to give a great impression, but the seat they have is pretty far back, and it might not be a good thing for someone so well groomed to sit back there.

The bus leaves without picking you up.  This happens a lot.

Down the side of the road, you see one of the old passengers from your bus, pushing a motorcycle along the soft shoulder of the road towards you.

They stop when they reach you, and show you the motorcycle they have.  It’s not working, but maybe, with the two of you together, you can get it running and zoom right past all those stinky, noisy buses to your destination in record time.  No more bus drivers deciding who gets on or off, and when.  You’re the drivers now!

You have nothing to lose, but as you both push the old machine along in the soft sand, you tape the sign to your back – just in case.

The hope of getting that motorcycle running keeps your energy up for a while, but the tires don’t roll in the sand very well, and for some reason the engine just won’t start.  You keep watching over your shoulder, hoping another bus might just stop and pick you up.  It’s a tactic that’s mixed with wishful thinking and guilt, but one that you hope will pay off.

Others on motorcycles pass along the way.  You are conflicted with desire for yourself, and jealousy that they got theirs working while you still push yours along in the hot sun.  Still, the thought of being in the drivers seat brings new hope, and you push on, despite the odds.

At times, when you’re alone on the road, those dark shadows flow into the light like a river breaking its protective banks.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  The bus was supposed to carry you all the way to your destination.  How will you get there now?  It’s way to far to walk, the motorcycle idea doesn’t seem to be working, and despite a few stops, no bus has made a seat available to you.  How did this happen to a good person? It’s not fair.  But, as they say, life isn’t fair.  No one was out to get you.  No malicious intent was a part of anyone’s agenda. S**t happens sometimes.

In the end, there’s no guarantees.  You may never get on a bus to begin with, and even if you do, it might be a short trip.  You were luckier than most.  You had a good ride – and a long one.  Time to stop the pity party, and do what you’ve done before.  You’re smarter now than you were back then.  You know which buses to stay away from and which ones can get you all the way to your destination.

This is nothing more than another new adventure.  A bump in the road, and you should be excited like you were when you stepped foot on that first bus so long ago.

Except this time, the stakes are a lot higher.  You have more skin in the game, and more people are expecting big things out of you. Failure is not an option, and the bus drivers have a lot more questions now than they did back then.

Where will you end up?  Will you ever get that motorcycle running, or will you have to take a few buses to get there?  You’ll never know.  The only thing to do is to know that everyone you’ve ever met is rooting for you, and wants to see you get there, and that somehow, it will happen.

Leap and the net will appear.  Keep those dark shadows behind the banks as much as possible, and when you feel like they’re seeping in, run for the high ground of friends and family.  They’ll always carry you.

Have faith in God.  He has big plans for you.  This change is a chance to reassess your path and to listen to what he’s calling you to.  There’s a purpose for everything, even, if like that first part of your bus trip, you can’t see it yet.

I wish for your bus ride to be full of adventure, great friends, deep faith, and an awesome destination.  You can’t ask for much more than that.

Safe travels, my friend.

 

 

 

 

The cruelest “ism” of all

They roll their sarcastic little eyes while they try to explain to you for the 10th time what ‘tweeting’ is.  That look is deliberately designed to make you feel stupid.  And the kids are very good at it.   Don’t you just want to smack them?

I get this treatment a lot lately – not so much from my kids, although I did get some attitude last week during a family card game.  Good thing too, since I didn’t have a topic to blog about this week…Thanks ‘C’.

It seems that the most unchecked ‘ism’ out there is ageism.  That’s right – being treated unfairly, rudely, rejected, or outright ignored because of ones age.

The big problem here is that the age stereotype just gets worse with each passing day.  Let’s face it; you’re not going to get any more black, short, sexed (well, maybe a little), ethnic, or whatever, but you are definitely going to get older.

One friend always points out that getting older is better than the alternative…funny guy!  I want to smack him too.

I have a particular issue with other people who are already at this age, or are close enough that they should know better.  I thought we were supposed to support each other.

And we should stick together, right?  We should run out and get a great car insurance discount then brag about to a bunch of 20 somethings.

I was at an interview recently, and as it was winding down, I asked the gentleman across from me if there was anything in my application that was a problem for him.  He said the only potential issue was that I was ‘over qualified’.  Over qualified?  I thought being more qualified for a job was a good thing, but we all know what that really means, don’t we? It means we’re too old and can’t learn new things.  That we’re hard-coded to an old way of doing things and are too inflexible to learn a new job.

The kicker is, this guy was roughly my age. Way to stick up for your fellow discriminatee, dude!

That’s something else that is a complete ‘no-no’ for our generation.  We’re not allowed to say certain things, are we?

‘Yo! What up!’ is completely unacceptable when addressing your neighbour while putting out the garbage in your housecoat and slippers.

You can never say ‘That’s badass’ when describing a friends new golf club or riding lawn mower.

If someone is planning a long road trip to the coast with their kids and dog, you’re not allowed to say ‘That’s Cray Cray’.

You’ll never see anyone ‘Twerking’ at a curling club dance.  Okay, that one is probably a good thing…no one wants to see that.  Besides, there might be hip injuries.

But we should be free to do it if we like, right?  No discrimination.

I tried to do a ‘selfie’ but it just came out creepy…and I don’t know who I’d send it to anyway, but I should be allowed as long as all those teens are doing it, right?

Maybe that’s the key to this whole ‘ism’ problem.  We need to normalize behavior that might not fit our social norms.  Not because we really want to share photos of our lunch on Facebook, or ‘hashtag’ the Air Supply concert we’re at, but because we deserve the right to do those things that suppress us.

I could be the Rosa Parks of middle-aged men!  Who’s with me???

Oh wait – there’s a patio furniture sale on at Lee Valley this week.  Maybe we can fight for injustice next weekend…