| Stephen Lewis: Nothing more sentimental than gift card |
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By: STEPHEN LEWIS, Post Columnist
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Posted: Sunday, October 11, 2009 7:25 am
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I know, I know. You've been worried sick that you've forgotten my birthday.
Not true. My birthday is actually this week so you've got plenty of time to send a card, e-mail or mail that perfect gift you found. Personally, I think the gift card is the best bet. It says "I'm thinking of you, I think I know you pretty good, but who knows you better than yourself so take this and go buy yourself something." Kinda chokes you up, doesn't it?
So the good news is you haven't forgotten my birthday. The bad news is that I'm at that awkward age in life. Too old to fulfill my dream of being a ticket taker at the movie theater and too young to be a Wal-Mart greeter. My wife argues that I'm entirely too spoiled to be the age I am. So what if my mom still takes me to a pediatrician. Who knows me better than the same doctor who has treated me for the past 30 years. Plus I get a really cool sticker and a sucker when I leave. On a side note I'm in the 82nd percentile for height and weight and the 79th percentile in head circumference for someone my age.
I stopped worrying about having birthdays years ago. Partially because, as we all know, men get better looking with age. But mostly because I have developed a new way to divulge my age. I no longer give the actual years I've been alive but rather the square root of that number. Which means this year I will be celebrating my 6.4807406th squared birthday. Not bad, huh? You know what sounds even better? Last year I was 6.4031242 squared years old, which means I only aged 0.0776164 years. I don't want you to get too excited but if you live to be 100 you'll only be 10 squared in my system. I sense your excitement.
So I'm not really worried much about birthdays anymore. What I am worried about is the impending "loss of cool" I've been feeling lately. I took a big slap in the face the other day while bringing my son home from practice. We pulled right behind the coolest car of my generation. If you're remotely close to my age you know the exact car I'm talking about. That's right, the late ’70s black Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with the gold eagle on the hood. Just like "The Bandit" drove in the movie "Smokey and the Bandit." It was about to be a great moment. The type of father/son moment saved for a TV commercial about fiber supplements or a laxative where the dad passes on some sort of life-changing wisdom to his son.
The car looked to be in perfect condition. I would have traded all four of my cars, two of our three dogs, and would have entertained negotiations for one of my three children to have had that car at that exact moment. The way the sun was glistening on the beautiful black paint job I could just see myself in that car racing down Lascassas Pike with the "fuzz" chasing me as I disappeared across the Cannon County line. And then it hit me. Right square between the eyes like a frying pan in a "Three Stooges" movie. As God as my witness I'm not making this up. The car, a symbol of my youth, a symbol of the middle-aged rebellion that still lies within all men my age, had an antique auto license plate. This car was never meant to have an antique auto license plate. It was meant to have a plate that says "HELRAZR." Or "CHKMGNT." Or maybe "ETMYDST." But never an antique plate.
Was I deflated? Let's just say the air came out of me like the Hindenberg. I had to immediately assess everything about me to keep from drowning in a pit of depression the likes we've never known. I rifled through my cassette collection: Poison, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Atlanta Rhythm Section, Night Ranger, Ratt, Def Leppard, Whitesnake. No, it's not the music. Those bands are easily as cool and relevant as ever.
What about my clothes? Not counting my work clothes I've got two pair of "cool pants": one pair white Duck Head painter pants and one pair green army camo pants purchased at Friedman's Army Surplus store. I'll admit they're a little tighter than when I first bought them but if I lay flat down on the bed and suck in really hard I can usually get them buttoned. Although my wife did have to sew a little piece of fabric to act as an extension so I could button them after eating out. Five different colored Izod shirts with the little alligator. One for each day of the week. And one pair of mostly white Nike running shoes with the red stripe (Forrest Gump model). So obviously the clothes are good.
So maybe it was just an abberation. I can't let myself be defined by a car. I'm still wearing stylish clothes. I've got a great music collection. Heck, I'm a two-star general in the KISS Army for crying out loud. You only get that high of a rank for being the coolest of the cool. That, and for sending in your monthly dues religiously for the past 30 years. I think I'll lie down, suck in my gut, button up my painter pants and slip into my 1978 Styx concert T-shirt and go cruise Jackson Heights. Why not, I'm only 6.4807406 squared years old! |
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