It’s getting worse. I’m aging at an alarming rate. Give me a day of the week and I’ll tell you, specifically, what body part was aching worse than others. I still think of 1995 as “just the other day”. I find the music of Living Colour groundbreaking. Sweet Jeezus, we’re growing old, compadres.
Here are 10 more signs we need to check into assisted living as a viable vacation option.
10. I willingly listen to Jack Johnson and John Mayer and Norah Jones. Oh, what the hell, I might as well admit I have a Pandora station exclusively dedicated to those artists. To think I mocked James Taylor at one time. In the 90’s mind you.
9. Our friends insisted on leaving our dinner party at 9:18 pm because we were yawning and they insisted “it was getting late”. 9:18pm. The kids aren’t even getting ready to hit the town at that hour and all I want to do is brush my dentures.
8. I keep bottles of Ibuprofen in my truck, in my firehouse locker, in my bathroom at home and constantly worry there won’t be one near by, in case I find myself in a street fight and need to head the pain off first.
7. A thought occurred to me the other day and I briefly considered writing a letter to the editor about it. On a typewriter.
6. I can attend a kickoff breakfast for breast cancer awareness with a genuine concern in my heart for a terrible disease, as opposed to believing that somehow someone, somewhere is going to feel the urge to reveal their breasts.
5. The state of my lawn is a cause for serious pause and contemplative reflection.
4. Tried a bowl of my kids’ cereal the other day, expecting sugary delight and a pleasant high fructose corn syrup rush. Three bites later, I tossed it out and grabbed a box of Cheerios. They’re good for cholesterol, you know.
3. I checked the smoke detectors in a friends’ house the other day. No reason. I was off-duty, but concerned nonetheless.
2. My boys look to me for advice. Seriously. This will prove to be one of the worst decisions of their young lives, a fact that will only be revealed years later while under the care of an overpriced psychiatrist. And it will still be funny to me.
1. In no way whatsoever, in any shape or form do I understand the relevance of Justin Bieber. As such, I feel a violent urge to just slap him across the face and tell him to get a haircut, thereby angering millions of girls under 12 and women who should know better.