Jan
21
2007
To pick up the theme (rant) from my last entry, I feel old.
I can’t yet predict the weather from the feel of my bones, nor is my newly-tinted red roots going gray. But I feel old much in the same way I imagine Charlton Heston feels standing next to one of the Culkin boys.
It isn’t mortality so much I lament as the loss of what precious little “coolness†I’ve mustered over the years.
Wednesday saw me arriving early to the Philosophy 111 class required by the college to graduate. For the 10 or so laptop-owners in the class, it’s always a mad dash to get a seat next to one of the room’s two electrical outlets so I arrive early to beat out the competition.
Soon after, a boy strangely resembling Shaggy (Dave) and a blonde-haired valley girl (Madison) sat in the row next to me. Conversation soon led into talk of the class’s following of freshmen.
Because of my youthfulness and radiant vigor (I’m assuming), Dave didn’t quite believe that I was as old as I made myself out to be.
“Were you born in the 80s or the 70s?†he challenged.
“I was born in the decade of Watergate,†I replied, with a melodramatic sigh.
Madison screwed up her face with the look of a sixth-grader handed a Mensa test by mistake.
“So, when was that?†she asked.
