I Want To Be An Old Fart: Part 2 - by Philip

When last we spoke, Dear Reader, I was lamenting the fact that I’m neither old enough nor young enough to fart in public without fear of retribution. Since I’m not Benjamin Button, I will probably never again be young enough to play “pull my finger” at Applebee’s, but I have evidence that I will be old enough sometime soon. And I found it in my freezer.

I remember the exact day that I became old – June 20, 2008. It was early on a Friday afternoon and I had just gone to pick up a couple of things from Trader Joe’s to supplement my previous day’s shopping trip to Safeway. My daughters would be arriving later that day to stay for the week (Because their mom and I alternate weeks with them. Not that it's any of your business, Mr. Nosy Pants.) and I always stock up on groceries beforehand. When I went to put the Tofutti Cuties in the freezer, there staring accusingly back at me was an entire carton of milk, frozen solid. I had bought the milk the day before and there was no one else in the house with me, so the only explanation outside of milk gnomes (which everyone knows is just a myth) is that I had accidentally put it in the freezer myself.

Young people don’t accidentally freeze cartons of milk. John McCain’s mother accidentally freezes cartons of milk. This clearly shows that I am descending that slippery slope into AARP-land. If you ask my daughters, this process began years ago, but now the proof was sitting in a frozen cube right between the chicken nuggets and the Homestyle Eggos. It’s just a matter of time before I’ll be driving obliviously down the highway at 10 miles under the speed limit in the passing lane with my left blinker on, reading out loud every billboard that I pass until little balls of white spittle gather in the corners of my mouth.

But in addition to my newfound propensity for freezing dairy products, there are many other signs that the aging process has already begun. Besides the noises that my knees make and my sudden and inexplicable desire to watch "Matlock" reruns, the real indicators of my age center around personal hygiene. As I was clipping my nose and ear hairs last week and trimming my eyebrows back to LTB level (Less Than Brezhnev), it occurred to me yet again that there will come a day when I just stop caring about how I look and give all of my facial hairs free run of the place. I’m pretty sure that event will have a high correlation with the initial onset of ED. I mean, if there’s no chance that metroing up my appearance is gonna get me some play, then what’s the point?

Now that I'm considered to be old by half of the people on the planet, I am starting to understand how the other half lives. I’ve always wondered what the hell is wrong those people who wear white socks with sandals, but now I find myself sympathizing with the “Who cares what other people think?” mindset. I’m just one hip replacement away from believing that it’s perfectly okay to wear plaid with stripes and that the kids these days are a menace, what with all their vidjya games and You Tubes. But on the positive side, I’m that much closer to nurse sponge baths and having free reign to fart whenever and wherever I please. That sounds totally worth it.