I turned 33 on April 26th, almost a month ago already.
I’m not having a crisis, but… I do think that, despite the years of gray hair and looking old, I might actually be getting old.
(Not “older,” I’m obviously getting older, I do so everyday. I’m specifically referring to the phenomenon of becoming “old.”)
And again, I did not get depressed, angry, disconnected, or anything. So don’t worry about me. But hear me out.
There are a few factors that make me think I’m getting old.
A few years ago… maybe six or seven years ago… I wrote an essay for Pulp Legacy about the uniqueness of my age, and the perspective of being 26 or 27. In that essay, I wrote that I knew what it meant to be an adult (car payment, work, etc.) but still remembered what it felt like to be a kid. Specifically, I wrote that I remembered that it was indeed a pain in the ass to brush your teeth before bed (the kid’s point of view) but knew that it was important (adult’s point of view). I also mentioned that I knew how much fun it was to stay up late (kid’s point of view) but that I also recognized the value of a good night’s sleep (adult’s point of view).
I remember after submitting the piece to Pulp Legacy, the reaction from one colleague, John “Mr. Vacation” Gerdes, was “Great piece of writing… hold on to that young perspective as long as you can.” And when I read that, I thought to myself, “Dude… I never plan on losing this perspective.”
I’m losing that perspective.
I think Evey needs to brush her teeth before bed, and stop making a stink about it. I can’t relate anymore to the fuss she makes. It’s juvenile, and I’m not sensitive to her whining.
I also think that if I go out on a weeknight and stay up late, the ensuing tiredness the next day totally sucks… and that I should just get to bed on time. I’m forgetting how much fun it used to be to have a drunken pool battle with one of my drinking buddies… and instead focusing on how I’ll feel better at work the next day if I get around 8 hours of sleep.
I’m getting old.
Another factor of me feeling old: the death of my Father.
Let’s face it, you don’t have to be a scientist to know that we come from the same genes of our parents, and the children get both the good and the bad genes their parents pass on to them.
I’m not saying that brain cancer is going to strike me down at age 62. For all I know I’ll get hit by a bus tomorrow, or I might live to be the oldest man on the planet.
But…
There aren’t many Joneses left anymore. I have a great-uncle Alan still in Wheatfield, and my Dad’s older sister is also alive (albeit non-existent to my family). The rest of the Jones family mostly died off at a relatively young age. I never even met my Dad’s father, Cotton Top (legally Boyd Sr., but everyone called him Cotton Top or just Top, because he was white-headed from such a young age. Do you think that white hair was an indicator of an accelerated lifespan?).
It is arguable that these Jones genes in my body – while great for sarcasm and charm – are piss-poor for longevity.
If I last as long as my Dad… and again, I’ll count that as lucky because who knows if there’s a plane crash with my name on it down the road – but if I last as long as my Dad… that means I’m over halfway done with my life on this plane of existence. (And I write that last sentence with only two… maybe three… beers consumed this evening.)
If I last as long as my Dad did, that means I reached my halfway point two years ago.
Spooky.
Last thing making me feel old, and it’s light hearted, especially compared to that last one:
When I was a kid, I was a big fan of the Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe. This was a comic book that was largely text, little art, giving the origin story of all the characters in the Marvel Universe. No matter how small or large, from Spider-Man to Frog-Man, their origin was in those comics.
Along with their origin was their secret identity, known aliases (I loved that part), known vulnerabilities, known super powers (super-strength, flight, laser-vision, etc.), height, weight, eye color, hair color and age.
You know how old most of the characters were in the Marvel Universe? Thirty-Two. Captain America, Spider-Man, Daredevil, Batroc the Leaper… they were all 32.
In my mind, age 32 must be the peak physical age for males. That’s why the Marvel comics writers always went with that age, right?
Well, now I’m 33. I’m no longer Captain America’s age. Now, I’m the Red Skull’s age. I’m Dr. Doom. I’m Mole Man.
It sucks getting old.
I’m not having a crisis, but… I do think that, despite the years of gray hair and looking old, I might actually be getting old.
(Not “older,” I’m obviously getting older, I do so everyday. I’m specifically referring to the phenomenon of becoming “old.”)
And again, I did not get depressed, angry, disconnected, or anything. So don’t worry about me. But hear me out.
There are a few factors that make me think I’m getting old.
A few years ago… maybe six or seven years ago… I wrote an essay for Pulp Legacy about the uniqueness of my age, and the perspective of being 26 or 27. In that essay, I wrote that I knew what it meant to be an adult (car payment, work, etc.) but still remembered what it felt like to be a kid. Specifically, I wrote that I remembered that it was indeed a pain in the ass to brush your teeth before bed (the kid’s point of view) but knew that it was important (adult’s point of view). I also mentioned that I knew how much fun it was to stay up late (kid’s point of view) but that I also recognized the value of a good night’s sleep (adult’s point of view).
I remember after submitting the piece to Pulp Legacy, the reaction from one colleague, John “Mr. Vacation” Gerdes, was “Great piece of writing… hold on to that young perspective as long as you can.” And when I read that, I thought to myself, “Dude… I never plan on losing this perspective.”
I’m losing that perspective.
I think Evey needs to brush her teeth before bed, and stop making a stink about it. I can’t relate anymore to the fuss she makes. It’s juvenile, and I’m not sensitive to her whining.
I also think that if I go out on a weeknight and stay up late, the ensuing tiredness the next day totally sucks… and that I should just get to bed on time. I’m forgetting how much fun it used to be to have a drunken pool battle with one of my drinking buddies… and instead focusing on how I’ll feel better at work the next day if I get around 8 hours of sleep.
I’m getting old.
Another factor of me feeling old: the death of my Father.
Let’s face it, you don’t have to be a scientist to know that we come from the same genes of our parents, and the children get both the good and the bad genes their parents pass on to them.
I’m not saying that brain cancer is going to strike me down at age 62. For all I know I’ll get hit by a bus tomorrow, or I might live to be the oldest man on the planet.
But…
There aren’t many Joneses left anymore. I have a great-uncle Alan still in Wheatfield, and my Dad’s older sister is also alive (albeit non-existent to my family). The rest of the Jones family mostly died off at a relatively young age. I never even met my Dad’s father, Cotton Top (legally Boyd Sr., but everyone called him Cotton Top or just Top, because he was white-headed from such a young age. Do you think that white hair was an indicator of an accelerated lifespan?).
It is arguable that these Jones genes in my body – while great for sarcasm and charm – are piss-poor for longevity.
If I last as long as my Dad… and again, I’ll count that as lucky because who knows if there’s a plane crash with my name on it down the road – but if I last as long as my Dad… that means I’m over halfway done with my life on this plane of existence. (And I write that last sentence with only two… maybe three… beers consumed this evening.)
If I last as long as my Dad did, that means I reached my halfway point two years ago.
Spooky.
Last thing making me feel old, and it’s light hearted, especially compared to that last one:
When I was a kid, I was a big fan of the Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe. This was a comic book that was largely text, little art, giving the origin story of all the characters in the Marvel Universe. No matter how small or large, from Spider-Man to Frog-Man, their origin was in those comics.
Along with their origin was their secret identity, known aliases (I loved that part), known vulnerabilities, known super powers (super-strength, flight, laser-vision, etc.), height, weight, eye color, hair color and age.
You know how old most of the characters were in the Marvel Universe? Thirty-Two. Captain America, Spider-Man, Daredevil, Batroc the Leaper… they were all 32.
In my mind, age 32 must be the peak physical age for males. That’s why the Marvel comics writers always went with that age, right?
Well, now I’m 33. I’m no longer Captain America’s age. Now, I’m the Red Skull’s age. I’m Dr. Doom. I’m Mole Man.
It sucks getting old.
Anyway, I could go on... but I don't want to stay up much later. It'll hurt tomorrow morning.
3 comments:
On the bright side, your dad's genes were mixed with your mom's and this might counter the life span expectancy. Of course, I don't know your mom's side, so it could accelerate it.
Very true, Eddie. And good news: the Gomez genes seem to be built to last. Both Grandma and Grandpa Gomez, well in their 80s, are still here. Now, their health is subpar -- diabetes for both, Parkinson's and dementia for poor ol' Grandpa -- but they're still alive.
Maybe if you mix the two, it's like ordering a rum and coke with Diet Coke... you still have the buzz, but with less calories?
And don't worry, I don't get that analogy either.
Batroc le sauteur est rad. J'ai pensé que l'homme Mole était beaucoup plus âgé que cela.
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