I don’t know of anyone over the age of 18 who wants to get older, despite all the studies showing that older people are happier than younger ones. I’ve always wondered why the elderly are so content, and now that I’m getting older myself, the mysteries are beginning to unfold.
For example, ten minutes ago I wanted to walk from my home to my office, all of 47 seconds away. (Yes, I timed it.) I was wearing black socks because I just came from getting a suit altered. There on the floor in the foyer were my sandals. Do I bother to take off the black socks before putting on the sandals? Ha! That’s thinking like a 25-year old. I just slipped my black socked feet into those babies and took off without a hint of shame.
I’m not yet at the age where I can wear a fishing hat, ball-high shorts, black socks and sandals all the time, but it was a nice little preview of things to come. Plus, now that I’m married I can eat all I want and dress any way I please – at least until my wife starts insisting we need a pool boy despite having no pool.
Being older has many advantages. My favorite one is that I get automatic respect without earning it. That’s sweet. I could say to the young ice cream shop vendor “Give me two scoops of vanilla, turd-boy,” and he would probably say, “Very good, sir. Coming up!” The world isn’t fair, but as long as it’s tilting in my direction I find that there’s a natural cap to my righteous indignation.
The best part about being my age is in knowing how my life worked out. Sure, there’s a lot more living to go, but there isn’t much doubt that I’ll always be the “Dilbert guy.” Unless I go on a crime spree, in which case I’ll be “that stabbin’ Dilbert guy.”
But when you’re 25, you are filled with curiosity about your own future. Will you become a captain of industry or will you drown in your own vomit? There are so many options. But the only thing you really need to know in advance is whether you will someday run for public office. If that’s an option, you don’t want any of your orifices to be involved in anything you wouldn’t tell your mother.
Another bonus of advanced age is the accumulation of generally useless knowledge that is nonetheless impressive. After about the age of 40 you start hearing a lot of “How did you know THAT?” If you sum up all of the facts in your head plus your awesome powers of inference plus your exceptional skill at bullshitting, you look like a psychic to anyone under 20.
That’s why after I call the ice cream vendor “turd-boy” I follow up with “You’re thinking of spitting in my ice cream now, aren’t you?” Then he says something like “Whoa, dude! How did you do that?”