Five Things For Which Life Is Too Short

I am not entirely sure how this post came about, but probably because I’ve been reading several really good novels, and then the inevitable stinker came along. It wasn’t even inevitable, it was self-induced. I knew it was a stinker when I started it. Bah. Life’s too short, thought I. Especially when life (as I know it) could be a whole lot shorter than I realize.

You never know.

Here’s five things life is most likely too short to do:

Long StoryLife is too short for a long story. Don’t you inwardly cringe when someone says, “It’s a long story but…”. To me, this marks the beginning of an upcoming period in my life where I’m going to be irretrievably bored, and will live precious minutes that I can’t get back, listening to something I’d rather not hear. Unrecoverable time. If the long story is a good one then quite possibly the time spent listening to it could be worthwhile, but ninety-nine-point-seven percent of the time, if someone says this, you’d be better off requesting an induced coma.

spongecupLife is too short to drink cheap wine. This is usually said when that first bottle (the one with the label on it which in no way suggests there is wine inside) is first tapped and allowed to “breathe” before dribbling two ounces into paper-thin, stemmed glassware which could hold a twenty-ounce Frostie with room to spare. The burgundy-colored liquid is swirled and examined for “legs”, the aroma breathed in, before that first teeny nip. The one where the lips are pursed on either side of the glass so as to not soil such a delightful accoutrement with anything one might deign to put on one’s lips. Fast forward two hours. Life is now not too short to drink cheap wine, if that’s all that’s left. The guests are now imbibing the more questionable adult beverage from bottles with labels picturing three-headed cows directly from Spongebob Squarepants cups. This after the unforgivable party foul — that of smashing three or four wine goblets during that little ruckus over by the barbecue pit.

TattoosLife is too short to blend in. After closely examining this phrase, it’s probably true. Those of us who are still keeping score — who has the biggest house, who stays in the better hotels, who has the most expensive car, wins — are probably guilty of blending in. To me, this says, don’t do what everyone else does, do your own thing, be different, do the things that cause Le Eyeroll Magnifique. Who wants it written on their tombstone, “Here lies Mary, She Blended In”. Well, actually, no one has shit like that engraved on their tombstone anymore. A lot of people get cremated and don’t even have a tombstone. And if they do have one, they probably prefer pictures of Angels with Wings.

Stuffed mushroomsLife is too short to stuff a mushroom. Some things aren’t worth doing. How much can you put into a mushroom? Just a little bit, and before you can stuff it you have to core the insides out of all those little fungi. It’s important that they be no larger than what can be popped into one’s mouth in toto, lest you squirt mushroom juice directly onto your neighbor’s Gucci cotton-poplin. Pick a different Hors d’oeuvre. Break out the Cheez-its someone, and spare me from having to poke something into a half-inch opening. I don’t have that much tolerance for boredom.

Valley of the doolsLife is too short to read bad novels. Ah, here it is. The justification for this blog post. Last post, I said I was going to read Valley of the Dolls as an example of what not to do. Got about 15% of the way in (one sitting) and decided: Nope, nah, not gonna do it. To deliberately read a novel that you know is bad is kind of like going to an Adam Sandler movie. You know what you’re getting into, yet you do it anyway. Thinking about those hours of my life that I couldn’t get back after I’d read VOTD, and considering I’d read it once before forty-n years ago and thought it was pretty stupid then, isn’t my idea of an intelligent decision on how to spend time. I’d just done that with Fifty Shades, and that writing was on par with this latest attempted read. So, no thanks, Ms. Susann. RIP, but I’m not reading any of your books. I got what I needed from the first ten pages.

Spongebob Photo credit: origami_potato / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

Tattoo Photo credit: * raymond / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

Age is Just a Number (Sometimes a Big Number)

Here we go again. First thing on a Monday morning, I get a notice of a new post on Boomer Cafe. It’s called How Old Are You? One Baby Boomer Says It Really Does Not Matter. It’s written by a guy named Stew.

Yet another baby boomer yelling about how “you are only as old as you feel” and “age is just a number”. Bah.

Stew says:

As a person who is “older” (okay, I have trouble with that word), I have learned a few things about aging … mainly, I don’t understand what everyone is talking about. I don’t know how old I am unless I calculate it. When asked, all I know is that I am as old as I am feeling that day – be it 26 or 42 or maybe 31. And that is what I tell people.

Well, Stew, I have learned a few things about aging too. And here’s what I have learned.

  • It takes me longer to do things than it used to.
  • I am now afraid of slipping on ice, when I used to play on it.
  • I now have to read on a Kindle so I can make the text real big.
  • I now have aches and pains in places I never suspected would hurt.
  • I now go places and look around and think “everyone here is younger than me”.

The above is just a sampling. There is so much more. So do I feel 26 or 42 or 31 on certain days? Maybe if my mirrors came with PhotoShop installed, I would feel that way. But no, Stew, not really.

Stew likes to skydive. Doesn’t that just figure? People who blah-blahther on about how they don’t look at calendars except for when they have a dentist appointment always skydive. What is the point of it? Why would anyone even consider skydiving for one minute? Don’t you have enough respect for life to think, but wait, what if that little pull cord thingy doesn’t work? Yeah, think about that. I recently bought a temporary electric toothbrush. It has a little button to press for vibration. It doesn’t work. It’s defective. So think about that pull cord again, Stew.

Speaking of the dentist. Sure, you only consult the calendar when you have an appointment. Old people have to go to the dentist more. Their crowns break, their gums rot, the longer we are on this earth, the more we chew things and the more our teeth get busted up. That’s why you are going to the dentist, Stew, and why you have to consult your calendar.

Don’t want to rain on anyone’s parade here. But shit aging happens and saying you are 26 when you are really 62 just means you are dyslexic, not “young at heart”.

Here’s another good idea. Stew doesn’t think we should travel south. Don’t go to Florida. Everyone in Florida is old.

Stew also says:

My idea of a challenge is not seeing how few times I can hit a dimpled white ball for 18 holes. The only dimples I want to see should be resting on the pillow in bed next to me and making me feel … and act … 25.

This is probably not a good idea, Stew. This sounds like promiscuous behavior to me. Or, sounds like you have a thing for younger women. Very problematic. Or maybe when you say “dimples” you are referring to some other part of the anatomy? In that case, okay. But 25? Really? You taking some of that “Vigara” that keeps showing up in my spam folder?

(And as an aside here, if people are going to spam you with ads for drugs, wouldn’t it be prudent to spell what you’re selling correctly? Just wonderin’.)

So, I did a triple eye roll at Stew’s post. Stew, you need to consult your calendar. You were born back when stamps cost two cents. When your phone number had four digits. When the milkman left dairy products in glass bottles on your doorstep. When you got S&H green stamps at the grocery store. When people still said “gee whiz”. When jello was a food staple.

There’s nothing wrong with aging. I think we, as aging grownups, might be better off accepting our new limitations instead of trying to pretend otherwise. Nothing screams “old geezer” more than someone trying to pretend they are thirty years younger than they are.

Shibui, that’s what we need in this country. Respect your age. It’s what got you where you are.