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From Dan Reines, Editorial Assistant:

Think I'm getting old.

No, really, I am. I'm getting old. I am not currently old, I know that. I'm only 25, and for a lot of folks, 25's chicken feed. If I were old, I would fritter away hours just harkening, and I rarely harken. I would begin sentences with phrases like "In my day," and end them twenty minutes and four plot twists later. And I most certainly would not have the stamina to run three miles each day before work. Granted, I do not have such stamina now, but that's because I'm lazy, not because I'm old.

But I can see old coming. Oh yeah, it's running right at me, huffing and wheezing in an ill-fitting gray sweatsuit, just like you'd figure. And from the looks of things, it's picking up a pretty good head of steam.

I see it coming in the subtlest ways. I grumble and mutter about the fresh-faced young punks at the drive-thru. That's what old folks do. And I creak when I sit up after a night's sleep. Honest to God — my back makes a faintly audible noise, like a Bonneville with bad shocks, and the walls in my 90-year-old home creak right back in sympathy. I don't remember that happening back when I was a fresh-faced young punk.

And there's more. Two months ago, I actually shook my fist at a car full of high schoolers who sped past me on the highway. No kidding — raised my right arm, growled my meanest growl, and shook it like a Yahtzee cup! I mean, for cryin' out loud, it was raining! Didn't these kids know it was raining? And I spent my entire tax weekend shuffling about the house ranting to the cat about "that damned sticky-fingered IRS!" Yep, there's no denying, and I ain't trying. I'm getting old.

Not that that bothers me. It doesn't. My mom always says that age is nothing to be ashamed of. After all, it isn't something you can stop. It comes at you like creeping lava — every day, you're either a day older, or you're dead, and given the choice, I'll take older. Besides, there's something to be said about the youth of a man who can still quote his mother and not sound like a complete weenie. (I don't, do I?)

And it's not like I'm a coot. In fact, let me say for the record that I am not a coot. I do all sorts of irresponsible stuff, and none of it involves goosing waitresses or forgetting my hair in the men's room. I buy cds when I should be buying CDs. I still rock 'n' roll all night, and I still party every day. I, um. Well, take it from me. I do lots of crazy, irresponsible stuff that I shouldn't.

But the fact remains that the world — the vibrant, dynamic, headline-making world — is starting to pass me by. Do you realize that when Mozart was my age, he was already dead? I do, believe me. (Okay, I'm not totally sure that's true, but I'm going with it.) And Shaquille O'Neal has more millions than I have twenties, and he's a year younger than me. Why, just look at that Tiger Woods! That guy's on top of the world right now — best golfer on Earth, more money than God... Man, I had my own lemonade stand when Tiger was still in diapers! So how did I screw that up?

Oh well, I guess it does no good to fret. Like I say, it's not the getting old part that bothers me anyway. It's the dying part, and that's at least 50 years away, 75 if I start running before work. And besides, there are lots of old people who are still pretty productive. Look at Bill Clinton. He's old, and he still gets up and goes to work every day. And L.L. Cool J; he's almost 30 and he's already had something like three comebacks (though we don't call them that). I guess age really is all in the mind.

Yes sir, it's all in the attitude: I'm 25 years young! Least, that's the kind of thing old people used to say. Back in my day, that is.

— "Gums" Reines (4/25/97)

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Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.

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