At the ripe age of 67, one might assume that I’ve gracefully accepted my senior status. However, my youthful spirit begs to differ. In my mind, I’m still a sprightly 27-year-old, albeit with the wisdom of a seasoned soul and the accumulated knowledge of a small army of college professors. Of course, my body may tell a slightly different story, with creaky knees and a brain that occasionally resembles scrambled eggs after a particularly rough game of football.
My children, however, seem to have a different perception of my age. They never explicitly utter the dreaded words, “Dad, you’re old,” but their actions speak volumes. They mock my driving skills, despite my impeccable record as a keen, alert, and watchful driver. (Okay, I may have exceeded the speed limit on occasion, but I always maintained a safe following distance.) I’ve even studied defensive driving and religiously avoid blind spots. Once upon a time, I proudly held a chauffeur’s license, safely transporting passengers to and from the airport in the dead of night. So, their insinuations that my driving abilities have diminished cut me to the quick.
Now, I’ll admit that I may have slightly bent the rim of my tire when I encountered an unexpected median in the wee hours. But hey, accidents happen to the best of us. Since my dear children never deign to read my column, I’ll confess that my night driving skills may have waned a tad. But hush, that’s just between us. I’ve also resorted to wearing glasses while driving, thanks to the DMV’s cunning eye chart trickery. Under the dim lighting of their office, those letters seemed impossible to decipher.
During our recent family vacation to Maui, my 25-year-old daughter, whom I affectionately refer to as Curly Girl, insisted on driving our rental minivan along the famed Road to Hana. In the past, I would have scoffed at such a notion, confidently snatching the keys and taking the wheel. But this time, I willingly relinquished my driving duties and settled into the passenger seat. As Curly Girl expertly navigated the winding curves and breathtaking scenery, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. She handled the road with ease, allowing me to fully immerse myself in the natural beauty around us.
When my children tease me about my perceived old age, I remind them of the days when they were younger and their constant bickering in the back seat forced me to pull over and make them sit on the curb until they calmed down. It was the only effective way to restore peace and quiet. “Mommy, let’s go! We’re going to be late!” “No, I’m quite comfortable here. You children are giving me a headache.” “Okay, okay. We’ll be quiet. Let’s just go.” It worked like a charm back then, and I’m still contemplating how I can exact my revenge now that they’re the ones behind the wheel. Perhaps I’ll subject them to a relentless barrage of Broadway show tunes or offer unsolicited driving advice, criticizing every turn and suggesting shortcuts like my son has done since he was a mere five years old.
I make a conscious effort to avoid interfering in my children’s lives, hoping to maintain open communication. However, there are times when their choices seem so utterly boneheaded that I can’t resist weighing in. They either ignore my wisdom or condescend to explain why I’m hopelessly out of touch. “I’ve lived for 67 years!” I exclaim. “You should heed my advice. I’ve accumulated a wealth of knowledge.” But my pleas fall on deaf ears, and I’m left banging my head against the wall while they adopt oversized dogs that will likely prevent them from ever renting an apartment again or purchase vehicles that far exceed their financial means.
Occasionally, I’m reminded that I’m not quite the sprightly 27-year-old I imagine myself to be. Like when I ask my daughter, Cheetah Boy, to open a water bottle for me because the hermetically sealed cap requires the strength of a professional bodybuilder. Or when I mention the first time I encountered a fax machine, and my children stare at me in bewilderment, as if I’m describing a relic from the days of horse-drawn carriages. But for the most part, I embrace my inner youth, seeking out comfortable mattresses, indulging in delectable cuisine, and exploring dive bars whenever the opportunity arises. If you happen to know of any particularly exceptional dive bars, do let me know. And if they have a decent jukebox, all the better.
