FAT, POOR, STUPID AND OLD. Pick two, any two.
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I figure it’s ok to fall into two of the inelegantly stated above categories at any particular stage of life. Say, when you’re twenty, it seems reasonable, as a young guy, that you haven’t had the opportunity to acquire the wealth nor wisdom that one expects to accumulate as you age. Conversely, as an older gentleman, one would expect that life experience has bestowed upon you, at least, a modicum of wisdom and that you’ve acquired, perhaps, through years of effort and toil, some level of sufficiency, not to mention the inevitable few surplus pounds. So, I say it’s ok to be poor and stupid as long as you’re young and thin and it’s not so bad if you’re fat and old as long as you’re wealthy and wise.
Accordingly, presently in my forties, knowing and earning a boatload more than I knew and earned at half my age, and weighing a, not insignificant, fraction greater than my younger self, the above dictum, read working hypothesis, seemingly, with thankfully only a dyad of the aforenamed troublesome tetrad applicable, categorizes me into the moderately enviable “not so bad” camp of fat and old albeit mercifully concomitantly wealthy and wise, relatively speaking of course.
However copacetic the above verbose logic presents, it doesn’t appear to precisely illustrate my current midlife station. And, perplexingly, everyone I know seems to concur.
I was catching up slash commiserating with an old college roommate a few weeks ago and he declared vigorously, “Fifty is the new thirty! We’re not old! We’re still young!”
“We are?” I wondered aloud.
What’s with all of the emerging grey hair and receding brown hair?
How come I am apparently both far and near sighted at the same time?
Why can’t I get out of bed without sitting up beforehand or climb a flight of stairs without sitting down afterward?
As much as I liked the sound of “we’re still young”, regretfully, I wasn’t buying it.
Then, recently, one day at work, a few of my similarly aged colleagues and I were marginally depressing the labor productivity component of the GDP by conversing, in lieu of laboring, about an unfortunate former child actor from one of those silly sitcoms we watched as kids who had succumbed to cancer. Lost in Space, The Partridge Family, The Brady Bunch; one of those. (Side note: As an eleven year old boy, my favorite TV sitcom character, to state the obvious, was the hot, half-naked, by 1970s standards, blonde genie who would grant your every wish. Duh.)
At any rate, I had read the actor was 52 at the time of his death and conveyed this to the group, a particularly faithful representation of our employer’s industrious workforce.
All, in unison, exclaimed, “52 !?!! My God, that’s young!!!”
“It is?” I wondered aloud.
I thought 22 was young.
Although, decades earlier, at the age of 22, I remember lamenting, ok, panicking, that I was “getting old”. This trepidation exacerbated by the observation that I hadn’t needed to use my fake ID in, gasp, over a year! In fact, simple mathematics dictated then, that barring some life threatening incident, which is, of course, an unqualifiedly impossible contemplation within a 22 year old’s mindset (did I mention, I rode a bike back then, the vroom, vroom, not vring, vring, kind?), I would soon age to be, double gasp, 25! “My God, that’s old!!!”
I had recently graduated from, as depicted in the brochure, a prestigious and affordable institution of higher learning. I was uncertain how they worked prestigious AND affordable into the same sales pitch, but my parents were sold, er, told only the most sagacious of students, whatever that meant, were admitted. And, remarkably, I had graduated! Excessive kudos and adulation all around. “Boy, am I smart!”
Soon afterward, I procured fatherly sanctioned employment, meaning dress code required long pants, netting $400 take-home a week. “Hold on, Hoss, $400 EVERY week!?” Elation! That was more than enough to cover my share of the living expenses my three roommates and I incurred in our fashionable bachelor pad (translation: androgenic, cramped dump), monthly fitness center dues, and entertainment expenses (essentially alcohol, girls and audio equipment), with, stunningly, enough left over for the utterly intimidatingly awesome aftermarket 4-2-1 exhaust kit for said Suzuki inline-four, crotch-rocket, mentioned above. “Boy, am I rich!”
In addition to riding recklessly (hey, I wore a helmet), incurring hearing loss (Rush was worth it), consuming ample intoxicants (perfectly legal), chasing girls (testosterone, MTV, Freud, do I need a justification!?) and wearing long pants (hel-lo Benjamins), I was, perhaps, somewhat obsessed with working out and maintaining a body fat percentage in the low double-digits. Very low double digits. Like college days 10.5% double digits.
Inevitably, three years later, my body fat percentage was measured to be in the, gasp, MID low double digits. Like 13% MID low double digits! “Oh my God, I’m fat!!!” And I had aged to be, double gasp, 25! “Oh my God, I knew this would happen, I’m old!!!”
So, to summarize, at 25 years of age, I was ostensibly smart and rich but fat and old.
Back to the future, as Dr. Emmett L. Brown would elocute.
Last Friday at work, I was trying to avoid the customary weekly TGIF morning smorgasbord situated three cubicles past my office doorway. Often and regularly, well-meaning colleagues en route to the plenitude, noticing my desk was free of edibles, would encourage, chastise and otherwise, reprimand me to “get yourself some breakfast”. This continued throughout the morning until twelve minutes before lunch. After lunch, continuing throughout the afternoon until twelve minutes before quitting time, I was again, often and regularly, enjoined to “get yourself a snack. It’ll go to waste otherwise”. At quitting time, same M.O. but the mandate had been revised to include “bring something home for the kids”.
Lamentably, in response to the pleading chorus, as I walked pass the scavenging horde on my way out, I replied, patting my midriff, “No thanks. Gotta’ watch the waistline.”
Incredulous detestation ensued as the frenetic rummaging abruptly ceased. All, in unison, exclaimed, “What !?!! My God, you’re thin!!!”
“I am?” I wondered aloud.
What’s with all of the “comfort waist” dress pants hanging in my walk-in?
How come I can insert my index finger, distal interphalangeal joint deep, into my belly button?
Why do I own more sweatpants than jeans?
And although, my waistline and body fat percentage had increased three inches and three percent, respectively, since the then distressful quarter century mark cited above, and barring the college lacrosse-playing “David Beckham-esc” summer intern earnestly and unabashedly partaking in the “free food” melee, it could have been incontestably established that I was, in fact, undoubtedly, the least corpulent individual present.
Ergo, I suppose, I was “thin”, considering, statistically speaking, I was conservatively two standard deviations less rotund than the given sample population. Hell, three standard deviations if you threw out the “Beckham-esc” outlier.
I decided the best course of action was to make a hasty retreat. Clumsily, I announced, “thanks, I’m actually running late” and skedaddled.
Later that evening at home while having dinner with the kinfolk, my 12 year old staggeringly and aberrantly looked up from an electronic device he was intently interacting with to actually address an animate being, me. He blurted out between swallows, “Dad, when can I get the new iPAD?”
With eyebrows raised, I asked, “What’s wrong with the less than a year old $600 iPAD you have?” After another well timed, coordinated hand sequence of shooting an angry bird, grasping fork, stabbing meat and stuffing piehole, he exasperatedly retorted between chews, “Dad, the new iPAD’s got quad-core graphics and a retina display. It's, like, a million times better. Geez, you don't know anything.” Swallow.
My 8 year old daughter, who had been recently prone to mimicking her older brother, chimed in, “Yeah, Daddy, you don’t know anything.” Thanks, Sweets. After a not so coordinated hand sequence of my own stuffing of piehole, (I just caught the inside of my lower lip with the fork, oww), I irritably countered, “We’re already paying for cable, Netflix, X-Box Live, laptops, tablets and smartphones. We can’t afford another expensive third-world manufactured media device. We’re not made out of money.”
Doubly staggeringly, the boy then quit his game in mid-play, a first, I believe, wiped his mouth, got up and flung the clearly worthless iPAD onto the table careening into the mac and cheese (the skim milk, reduced-fat cheddar version) and with entirely too much teen drama, the little angel stormed out of the kitchen enraged, “We can’t afford anything!!! We are so poor!!!”
My wife and I looked at one another shaking our heads and sighing. We then heard from angel number two, “Daddy, why are we so poor?” Thanks again, Sweets. Addressing my wife, I said, “Apparently I’m poor and stupid.” My wife resumed her dinner and without pause replied “You said it, not me.”
So, to summarize, at 45 years of age...
If you'd like to support the author, please purchase the PDF including the remaining 72 words. Thanks, Joe.
© 2020 A. Joseph. All rights reserved.
Accordingly, presently in my forties, knowing and earning a boatload more than I knew and earned at half my age, and weighing a, not insignificant, fraction greater than my younger self, the above dictum, read working hypothesis, seemingly, with thankfully only a dyad of the aforenamed troublesome tetrad applicable, categorizes me into the moderately enviable “not so bad” camp of fat and old albeit mercifully concomitantly wealthy and wise, relatively speaking of course.
However copacetic the above verbose logic presents, it doesn’t appear to precisely illustrate my current midlife station. And, perplexingly, everyone I know seems to concur.
I was catching up slash commiserating with an old college roommate a few weeks ago and he declared vigorously, “Fifty is the new thirty! We’re not old! We’re still young!”
“We are?” I wondered aloud.
What’s with all of the emerging grey hair and receding brown hair?
How come I am apparently both far and near sighted at the same time?
Why can’t I get out of bed without sitting up beforehand or climb a flight of stairs without sitting down afterward?
As much as I liked the sound of “we’re still young”, regretfully, I wasn’t buying it.
Then, recently, one day at work, a few of my similarly aged colleagues and I were marginally depressing the labor productivity component of the GDP by conversing, in lieu of laboring, about an unfortunate former child actor from one of those silly sitcoms we watched as kids who had succumbed to cancer. Lost in Space, The Partridge Family, The Brady Bunch; one of those. (Side note: As an eleven year old boy, my favorite TV sitcom character, to state the obvious, was the hot, half-naked, by 1970s standards, blonde genie who would grant your every wish. Duh.)
At any rate, I had read the actor was 52 at the time of his death and conveyed this to the group, a particularly faithful representation of our employer’s industrious workforce.
All, in unison, exclaimed, “52 !?!! My God, that’s young!!!”
“It is?” I wondered aloud.
I thought 22 was young.
Although, decades earlier, at the age of 22, I remember lamenting, ok, panicking, that I was “getting old”. This trepidation exacerbated by the observation that I hadn’t needed to use my fake ID in, gasp, over a year! In fact, simple mathematics dictated then, that barring some life threatening incident, which is, of course, an unqualifiedly impossible contemplation within a 22 year old’s mindset (did I mention, I rode a bike back then, the vroom, vroom, not vring, vring, kind?), I would soon age to be, double gasp, 25! “My God, that’s old!!!”
I had recently graduated from, as depicted in the brochure, a prestigious and affordable institution of higher learning. I was uncertain how they worked prestigious AND affordable into the same sales pitch, but my parents were sold, er, told only the most sagacious of students, whatever that meant, were admitted. And, remarkably, I had graduated! Excessive kudos and adulation all around. “Boy, am I smart!”
Soon afterward, I procured fatherly sanctioned employment, meaning dress code required long pants, netting $400 take-home a week. “Hold on, Hoss, $400 EVERY week!?” Elation! That was more than enough to cover my share of the living expenses my three roommates and I incurred in our fashionable bachelor pad (translation: androgenic, cramped dump), monthly fitness center dues, and entertainment expenses (essentially alcohol, girls and audio equipment), with, stunningly, enough left over for the utterly intimidatingly awesome aftermarket 4-2-1 exhaust kit for said Suzuki inline-four, crotch-rocket, mentioned above. “Boy, am I rich!”
In addition to riding recklessly (hey, I wore a helmet), incurring hearing loss (Rush was worth it), consuming ample intoxicants (perfectly legal), chasing girls (testosterone, MTV, Freud, do I need a justification!?) and wearing long pants (hel-lo Benjamins), I was, perhaps, somewhat obsessed with working out and maintaining a body fat percentage in the low double-digits. Very low double digits. Like college days 10.5% double digits.
Inevitably, three years later, my body fat percentage was measured to be in the, gasp, MID low double digits. Like 13% MID low double digits! “Oh my God, I’m fat!!!” And I had aged to be, double gasp, 25! “Oh my God, I knew this would happen, I’m old!!!”
So, to summarize, at 25 years of age, I was ostensibly smart and rich but fat and old.
Back to the future, as Dr. Emmett L. Brown would elocute.
Last Friday at work, I was trying to avoid the customary weekly TGIF morning smorgasbord situated three cubicles past my office doorway. Often and regularly, well-meaning colleagues en route to the plenitude, noticing my desk was free of edibles, would encourage, chastise and otherwise, reprimand me to “get yourself some breakfast”. This continued throughout the morning until twelve minutes before lunch. After lunch, continuing throughout the afternoon until twelve minutes before quitting time, I was again, often and regularly, enjoined to “get yourself a snack. It’ll go to waste otherwise”. At quitting time, same M.O. but the mandate had been revised to include “bring something home for the kids”.
Lamentably, in response to the pleading chorus, as I walked pass the scavenging horde on my way out, I replied, patting my midriff, “No thanks. Gotta’ watch the waistline.”
Incredulous detestation ensued as the frenetic rummaging abruptly ceased. All, in unison, exclaimed, “What !?!! My God, you’re thin!!!”
“I am?” I wondered aloud.
What’s with all of the “comfort waist” dress pants hanging in my walk-in?
How come I can insert my index finger, distal interphalangeal joint deep, into my belly button?
Why do I own more sweatpants than jeans?
And although, my waistline and body fat percentage had increased three inches and three percent, respectively, since the then distressful quarter century mark cited above, and barring the college lacrosse-playing “David Beckham-esc” summer intern earnestly and unabashedly partaking in the “free food” melee, it could have been incontestably established that I was, in fact, undoubtedly, the least corpulent individual present.
Ergo, I suppose, I was “thin”, considering, statistically speaking, I was conservatively two standard deviations less rotund than the given sample population. Hell, three standard deviations if you threw out the “Beckham-esc” outlier.
I decided the best course of action was to make a hasty retreat. Clumsily, I announced, “thanks, I’m actually running late” and skedaddled.
Later that evening at home while having dinner with the kinfolk, my 12 year old staggeringly and aberrantly looked up from an electronic device he was intently interacting with to actually address an animate being, me. He blurted out between swallows, “Dad, when can I get the new iPAD?”
With eyebrows raised, I asked, “What’s wrong with the less than a year old $600 iPAD you have?” After another well timed, coordinated hand sequence of shooting an angry bird, grasping fork, stabbing meat and stuffing piehole, he exasperatedly retorted between chews, “Dad, the new iPAD’s got quad-core graphics and a retina display. It's, like, a million times better. Geez, you don't know anything.” Swallow.
My 8 year old daughter, who had been recently prone to mimicking her older brother, chimed in, “Yeah, Daddy, you don’t know anything.” Thanks, Sweets. After a not so coordinated hand sequence of my own stuffing of piehole, (I just caught the inside of my lower lip with the fork, oww), I irritably countered, “We’re already paying for cable, Netflix, X-Box Live, laptops, tablets and smartphones. We can’t afford another expensive third-world manufactured media device. We’re not made out of money.”
Doubly staggeringly, the boy then quit his game in mid-play, a first, I believe, wiped his mouth, got up and flung the clearly worthless iPAD onto the table careening into the mac and cheese (the skim milk, reduced-fat cheddar version) and with entirely too much teen drama, the little angel stormed out of the kitchen enraged, “We can’t afford anything!!! We are so poor!!!”
My wife and I looked at one another shaking our heads and sighing. We then heard from angel number two, “Daddy, why are we so poor?” Thanks again, Sweets. Addressing my wife, I said, “Apparently I’m poor and stupid.” My wife resumed her dinner and without pause replied “You said it, not me.”
So, to summarize, at 45 years of age...
If you'd like to support the author, please purchase the PDF including the remaining 72 words. Thanks, Joe.
© 2020 A. Joseph. All rights reserved.