Published Tuesday, April 15, 2008 8:32 AM
Updated Tuesday, April 15, 2008 8:33 AM
Fanfare for the Common Man 4/16/08
The first thing to goI was reminded yet again last week that I am getting, not just older, but old.
I had made a batch of French fries for lunch on Friday afternoon and returned the bag of fries to its usual storage place – or so I thought. On Sunday, when I wanted to make another batch of French fries, I opened the freezer door to find … nothing.
No fries. No empty bag. Nothing.
I looked around the counter thinking I truly spaced it and left the bag of French fries out. I even looked in the refrigerator thinking I might have stuck them in there by mistake. Nothing there either.
This truly confused and befuddled me. I know I had leftover French fries. I didn’t use the whole bag in one batch; it was a three-pound bag of fries.
So where did I put them?
I thought, Oh, great I’ve laid them down somewhere like I might do my car keys, my glasses or my wallet. So I searched the house, expecting to find a thawed out and melted bag of French fries on my dresser, in the laundry or on the bookshelves next to the TV.
Thankfully, I’m not that far gone. Close, but not quite.
After a half hour of looking in odd places, I thought it prudent to return to searching the usual places. I looked through the kitchen cabinets. Nothing.
I was about the breathe a sigh of relief that I didn’t do something so stupid as to put a frozen bag of French fries up with the coffee and canned goods when I remembered.
Maybe not so stupid to put the fries in with the canned goods, but certainly within my IQ (Idiot’s Quotient) to put the bag of French fries in with the cereal and chips.
I opened up the cabinet where I keep the Cap’n Crunch and assorted bags of potato chips and pretzels and there stacked neatly and orderly were my French fries.
And yes, there was water everywhere.
It got me to thinking – no, more like worrying. I’m not just over the hill, I’m over the hill and picking up speed.
They always say the first thing to go is your memory. I never used to be absent minded. I can remember what I had for breakfast. I don’t get lost … much.
If you were to ask my daughter, the first thing to go was my sense of fashion, but in her mind, that was something I couldn’t lose because I never had it to start with.
When you reach that age when you go to the store for coffee and creamer and you wear a pair of shorts and black dress socks, with sandals because it’s just comfortable that way, you know you’re getting old.
Unlike most men my age I never had to worry about losing my hair. In fact, my problem seemed to be the exact opposite. I more resemble a walking Chia Pet.
I asked my son the other day if he thought his dad was losing his hair.
“No,” he replied, “but you are a lot grayer now than when I saw you last.”
During a snowstorm last winter when I still called the mountains home I was out on the back porch and saw some of the neighborhood kids out and about in the complex having snowball fights and playing in the snow.
Aware that I did not want to be perceived as that curmudgeonly old guy who lives alone I packed up a snowball and issued the challenge that I had one of the most lethal fastballs known to man and could knock the carrot off Frosty’s nose from anywhere in the yard.
I reared back to let one fly and when I reached that moment of truth when I drew my arm back, that moment when you feel the surge of strength muscle up in your shoulder, I knew I was doomed.
A little voice came from my left shoulder that said, “Uh-uh, I don’t think so. Not today. Don’t even think about throwing that snowball.”
The sorry snowball toss fell weakly and well, curmudgeonly to the ground, way short of its intended target.
I got pelted.
You know the saying; when you’re young you want to be old, and when you’re old, you want to be young.
Things are all messed up.