In Between

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 20, Verse 29

"The glory of young men is in their strength; of old men, their experience."

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CHIPPED WISDOM:

I'm thirty-three.  

I suppose it's a nice age-- it's fine.  It's a fine age to be.  I'm thirty-three.  If I was Irish, I'd say, "Oi'm tortie-tree," and every woman within 400 yards would simultaneously orgasm.  

But I'm not Irish, and oi'm not tortie-tree.  I'm just thirty-three.  And that's okay.

As ages go, it has its advantages.  There's nothing, really, that I can't do, except collect Social Security and get my AARP card.  Thirty-three-year-olds can drive U-Hauls and rent-a-wrecks.  And that's cool, because I like driving things.  Once, I rented a Chevy cargo van and drove it to Chadds Ford to transport an antique cabinet.  I was in heaven.  I loved driving that fucking stupid thing.  I don't know why.  Maybe I felt... powerful?  Free?  Like a deliveryman-- unencumbered by complexities and anxieties and depression and philosophical and ethical quandaries.  And WOW did I just sound like an elitist asshole.

A thirty-three-year-old elitist asshole.  Nice to meet you.

When I was in my twenties and I said dumbfuck things like that, people just blew it off and let it go because, hey, he's in his twenties, he doesn't know anything.  "YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT FROM NOTHING!" was my father's choice way of putting it.  

And, of course, he was right.  He'd be the first to tell you that.  I'd be the second, because I'm thirty-three.

(Hi.)

Now, when I say dumbfuck things like that, funny things happen.  People get offended.  They get hurt, or annoyed or angry.  I guess they think I should know better.  You know, because I'm-- well, you know.

Apparently, when you're thirty-three, your trousers fit all funny, too.  They don't fit the same, and that's funny.  Your belts-- you know, the ones that you used to have to take a Phillips-head screwdriver to to make an auxiliary hole, well, you don't need to make an extra hole in those belts anymore.  You don't need to deface and defile your belts, because now they fit fine with the pre-existing holes, because you're not thirty-two anymore, and things are different now, and if you say some dumbfuck thing someone's going to cry or turn their back on you or something like that and you don't know what you did because you used to be able to get away with those dumbfuck things but the belt is okay now and you're hurtling down Route 1 in that Chevy van and the speedometer goes up to 100 but nobody does that in a Chevy van but God you really want to see if it can do it do it do it DO IT.

Do it.  

I have gray hairs.  I've always wanted them, and now that they're here, well, I don't know.  I've got wrinkles and creases and gray hairs and the occasional zit to remind me that I'm only thirty-three and not quite old enough to be taken seriously and not quite young enough to be cavalierly disregarded.  It's limbo.  It's purgatory.  It's the 7 1/2 floor.  It's shit like SHIT.

I have a big-boy job, for the first time in my life.  I wear ties, but they have carrots and pheasants and clocks on them.  I'm not really a big boy.  I'm a phony.  A BIG FAT PHONY.  I'm trying to look like Slim.  

But I'm only thirty-three.  I'm not here, I'm not there.  I'm... somewhere in between, I guess.  I'm a husband and a father and a semi-responsible dog owner.  I have a thirteen-year-old Volvo station wagon and homeowners insurance, because I'm a homeowner, but I wander around wondering when everybody's going to wake up and realize that I'm full of shit.  

Maybe, of course, they already know.  Maybe they're just being nice.  

God, you're nice.