It's Official: I'm an old fart

When you turn a corner in your life, sometimes it's obvious. Your first birthday. First Communion. Bar Mitzfah. Senior Prom. The night you lost your virginity. The day you got it back. And so on. Sometimes though, you turn a corner in your life in less obvious ways. I knew I'd hit middle age when I was riding up an elevator and heard a Steely Dan song on Muzak. Or when I was in a record store and overheard the following conversation between two teenybopper girls:

Teenybopper Girl One: "Wow! A Beatles CD!"
Teenybopper Girl Two: "Who are the Beatles?"

These are tough moments.

But over the weekend, I became what I've dreaded all my life: an old fart. It happened at dinner, while my wife and I were hosting the 17-year old daugher of my wife's best friend. This wonderful young woman had called to say she was in town (she was driving down from LA to Orange County, where we live) and wanted to visit us. Seriously. She's an amazing young woman for her age, or any age: smart as a whip, incredibly mature and poised, a joy to be with. We were thrilled to have her in our company. But I digress.

Anyway, talking on the subject of music, or why there's nothing worth listening to on LA FM radio (and LA is the second largest radio market in the US - go figure). I really wanted to know what new music was important to her, in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to stay current. (God bless this young woman - her tastes in rock are more edgy and less commercial.) But in the course of conversation, I blurted out a deadly faux pas that I will never forget:

"Well, when I was your...." Ohmygod. I'd just used a phrase my father always used when talking to me as a teen. Even though I caught myself in mid-sentence, it was too late. Our guest knew it. My wife knew it. And sure as Hell, I knew it. I was officially an old fart.

I've become what I used to hate. I've become the enemy, or in my case, the enema. I don't know that this can be cured. Yes, I've deluded myself that despite my growing waistline and that oh-so-distinctive touch of gray, that I was still young, a with-it, kinda-new-kinda-now, kinda happening sorta guy. I was just an edgy young man trapped in the body of a 49-year old, that's all.

Yeah, right.

It's downhill from here. I'm doomed and I know it. They tell me that pretty soon, Buicks will look really cool to me. That if I come across a Lawrence Welk re-run on cable, that I will actually dig it. I may start getting into coupons. Shuffleboard might look like an extreme sport. And I'll probably think that the X-Games will mean talking about my first wife. Somebody shoot me. Please.

This begs the question: how can an old fart stay young? No, I'm not talking about leisure suits, comb-overs, or buying a red Porsche to counteract the inevitable onset of male erectile dysfunction. I am what I am, like it or not. All I can do is to stay young in spirit and soul. And that means not letting my attitude harden. It means keeping an open mind, continuing to discover and learn, and continuing to challenge myself. I'll gladly move over and let younger people get the shot they deserve. It's the least I can do for having been denied the chance myself when, when, when...okay damnit, I'll say it: when I was their age.

Nobody ever said this was easy. But please. Judge me for what I am, not how old. I'll judge you for who you are, not how young.