I'm An Old Man

For as long as I can remember I've been an old man. Physically, I just turned 36, but mentally, I've been about 85 since the early 2000's. It started early. I've literally been training for this my entire life. I've never been one to care about amusement parks, not since I was a toothless 6 year old who got to hang out with Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. I think I figured that those type of places will never provide as much joy as I had in that moment, so amusement parks and theme parks were done.

Now, I see those places as a pickpockets wet dream, a place to get lost, expensive as hell, and too big to not be disappointed when you leave. They strike me as an ecosystem designed by a lunatic to make families yell at each other and see how many people can stand in a line waiting for a 3 minutes ride. Stand there like cows waiting to enter the slaughterhouse. Rides, by the way, have never grabbed me. I don't care for roller coasters, and I never have. "They're fun, it's the rush, man!" is what I hear from roller coaster enthusiasts. Nope. The treat of impending vomit is not a selling point to me. It's the same reason I stopped drinking tequila. The fight or flight response is pure flight for me when it comes to rides at parks. I liked swings as a kid, and the merry-go-round, but anything past that is dumb. You can't see anything, you're going too fast, it's too loud, and people are screaming out of terror. Sounds like a great time.

I used to watch the show Double Dare as a kid, as did most people of my generation. The grand prize was a trip to space camp. Now, the idea of space camp is, on the surface, a great idea. It's a place where kids can go, learn about science and math (lacking in today's world), and have fun with space. I like space, space is cool. I was all about trying to get on that show and winning my way to space camp. Then they showed the gyro-sphere spinner thing that they put you in. And my first dream was killed. No thanks, I don't want to get spun around so much that I am disoriented and pukey. Fuck off spinning thing, you're a ride, and rides are dumb. Instead of learning math at space camp, I learned statistics from baseball and how to keep score in one of those weird books like an old timey baseball man. I was 8 when I learned how to do that.

But despite my dislike of rides and distrust of large crowds and lines, one thing completed my Old Man Training. There was one place that I went to as a child that formulated my cranky bastard ideals. I went once every couple of weeks for a few hours at a time. Mostly alone. I would go, learn about things, listen, watch, and absorb information. The barbershop. I went to an old man barbershop as a child.

Here's how it worked. My mom would go grocery shopping on Saturday mornings/early afternoons. And sometimes, she would have to drag me along, as I was a child and shouldn't be left alone for fear of accidental death. Every couple of weeks however, at least that's the frequency of my memories, I would need a haircut. Nothing special, just the same haircut that nearly every child has during elementary school. But instead of sitting there, and waiting patiently with me, my mother, in her infinite wisdom, would just leave me there, converting the barber, an older man named Roger, into my babysitter for a while.

The place was cool for a baseball minded child. Every team had a flag hanging around the perimeter of the walls, Yankees memorabilia strewn about, and a television with games on it all the time. In the cold months, it was either college football or basketball, baseball in the warm. Sports magazines was the preferred reading material of the customers, and things like Newsweek and Time were nowhere to be found. Many times, I would be there, waiting patiently and reading back issues of something or watching the game, and older people would be arguing the merits of some player of coach. I was a kid whose feet would dangle off the chair, legs too short to hit the ground, and listen to grumpy old men nitpick about the smallest things. "Those kids dance too much, just make the damn tackle and go back to work!"

"Pfft! Mattingly needs to stand straighter, he looks like an ogre."
"He has a bad back."
"So do I, you don't see me slouching."
"I don't see you doing anything, Charlie."
"Meh."

This is what I would do a couple dozen times a year. Sit there quietly and listen to grumbling. It was great. Occasionally I would pipe up and say something, and after a while, my opinions were valid and mattered to the conversation. "Those new hats are too loud," I would say, complaining about some teams re-branding. "These guys are getting paid too much to complain about being hurt. It's part of the job." Many times, my contributions were met with a knowing "Mmmhmmm," or some other sound that old people make when they agree while frowning.

I was learning fast. I was the Anakin Skywalker of grouchiness. Over the years, I have honed my own brand of cranky old manness to the point where it's just assumed that I hate things. That's not 100% true, but I certainly have distrust of youths, and rides will always seem pointless to me. I just hope that my cantankerous poweres are used for as little evil as possible. 

I'd rather not be referred to as Darth Hater.

SD