When I Grow Up
I love it when I have an interesting and original blog idea. This one is inspired by two loyal members of the Rants Army who cycle through bouts of relative age jokes and accusations of homoerotic activities. Thus provided with A) A clear example of the fact that I wasn’t that bad as a kid, and B) proof that there are some eventualities I don’t want to steer toward, the two ideas sparked the thought, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Of course applied to my 42-year-old present self, because one thing I’ve been reminded of forcefully is that being “grown up” is a perpetually-moving target, just out there near the horizon. Sort of like the dream where you have no pants, and try to run but go nowhere… or maybe not.
In my mind, somewhere down the road, there will be a time when I’m done with Career #2 (I am on #1 now, #2 is a foregone conclusion – thanks, you Commie Liberals) and finally have double-digit percentage increases in Me Time. I suspect that on this Someday I will have a light coat of sawdust and smell as such, have perpetual spots of glue on my hands, and likely a lot more scars from the wrists down. The under-fingernail areas will be perpetually caked with something that does not wash off with common solvents. I will occasionally have spots of paint on my head. I may have my own hand-made coffin hidden somewhere out of Di’s sight, not because it would bother her but just because I don’t want to be nagged about the time wasted making it just so I can be cremated in it and used for cat litter.
I also picture myself wearing some of the tee shirts I currently own, and shorts. Unless it’s cold, in which case I will have sweats. Unless Di has clouted me in the junk with her walker leg and compelled me to ‘go out’ somewhere with her, in which case I will have bluejeans on. In none of these cases will I even entertain thinking about underwear, because at that point I won’t have a good reason to need them. That, and I’ll be so fucking old I can do whatever I want, fashion-wise. Odds will be good I’ll still be inappropriately barefoot or close to it.
I may well employ some kind of mobility device myself, but I’m putting off that thought and trusting science and technology. Same story with the hearing, so when I don’t hear you or ask you to repeat yourself, it is merely to piss you off. All whispered grandchild secrets will be received and kept, however, with a wink and a nod. I will, by this time, have some quite alarming eyebrows, which the same great-offspring will enjoy playing with, possibly braiding, or coloring with markers. These will be white, and will match the ear hair that by then I will have completely given up trimming. As for the rest of the hair, such as it may be, I will likely put that in a pony tail to keep it out of my face. Shaving my head will have gone the way of underwear because, hey, nothing I do at that point could possibly make me look any better. Why bother?
Everything in our home will function perfectly, I like to think, and there will be a lot of custom-made shit and built-ins. I strongly suspect that on my desk, in my office, my cat Dixie will be converted post-mortem into a pencil sharpener, and you can guess where the pencil goes. I will love odd stuff like that, because I’m a crazy old man. The kids and Di will roll eyes and shake heads behind my bent back, but the grands will think I’m awesome because I will fingerpaint with them, do Legos, blow shit up with firecrackers, and fry bugs with a lens. Maybe I’ll make custom Barbie furniture, but not that shitty pink. They will get older but still think I’m bomb because I will know the answer to all their ‘why’ queries, but will probably whisper questions to Gram about why I cry during the National Anthem and make them STAND UP for it at 4th of July events but never explain myself.
Being an Old Fucker, though, I think there will be quite a bit of porch sitting. And beer swilling. And tobacco juice spitting. I definitely will be channelling Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino, except not the racist bastard part. Cranky definitely, and probably generating a Hate Force Field so powerful that squirrels will drop from branches spontaneously dead because I deliberately hate at them. So cantankerous that if cancer invaded, it would have to go to the doctor because it got Rants. I plan on being so ornery that both my Congressman and Senators will have special mail inboxes for me for the letters they fear reading but get weekly and make interns read, who later will require therapy. My kids will merely threaten to make the grandkids stay with me and that will be punishment. That part will be after the angelic child phase but before the return-to-humanity phase.
Yeah, I’m looking forward to it already.