Certain things really remind me of how old I am. The most obvious things are the girls' birthdays and of course my own. Jaycee is 3 now. Yes, I said 3. It seems like yesterday I was out of my mind trying to figure out how I was going to change a diaper by myself let alone spend any length of time unsupervised with a child. I wish I could say its maturity I have gained, but that just doesn't seem to be the case.Even though it seems this post would be more appropriate after my birthday, I think I realize that my birthday really doesn't matter anymore. I don't mean that in the "poor me" way, but more in the "I'm not sure what would make it important anymore" kind of way. Besides, I don't need any additional indicators to tell me I am getting older. Allow me some examples:
-Not only do I officially own more sweat pants than any other type of clothing, but I am only a hair away from wearing them everywhere (no offense to sweat pant wearers). They aren't even the nice ones with a team logo or some other redeeming quality. In fact, the most exciting part about them is that I got them on sale for $4 each.
-I find myself saying "when I was younger" or "when I was in school" a lot more often. These statements are usually followed by some sort of story that involves the way the world is rapidly changing without me knowing.
-I am quickly losing my ability to become embarrassed. This is a pivotal part of the aging father's personality. I cannot identify where this happened, but it is definitely occurring. The fact that I am blogging about my sweat pants is a perfect example. If you need another one: for christmas my wife bought me a "Man Groomer". In case you are wondering, a man groomer is exactly that. Its function is the removal of unappealing or, in my case, excessive body hair. Apparently my body has begun to play tricks on itself and is slowly discontinuing growth in the areas of my head that are most visible to the world and is transferring its focus to my back. The beauty of the hairy back is the fact that I cannot see it. My wife, however, can; hence the man groomer. Well after successfully completing my first independent man grooming session, I proudly lifted my shirt to reveal a partially shaven back to anyone willing to look. If I were my kid, I would have buried my head in my arm and wished myself to the corn field. Thankfully Jaycee and Jayden have little knowledge of what I am becoming and they haven't begun to hold it against me.
-The last and worst of all the traits is my lack of ability to acknowledge my location when I release gas. Okay, so maybe this is unique to me and I am using my age as an excuse, but its true. I find myself letting a stinker escape in places where it would be easy to identify me as the culprit. The fact that I am not afraid of being singled out as the smelly guy is scary. The other day, I was shopping at Target. I was sent with a short list that included orange juice. I was intensely studying the OJ options with the refrigerator door open. I was partially standing in the door so I couldn't really hear much around me with the exception of the whirring of the refrigerator fan. I guess I was in the zone and failed to take the necessary precautions to prevent a loud gas bubble from escaping. I didn't think much of it since I couldn't hear it that loud with my head in the cooler and I continued shopping. Apparently I was incorrect in assuming I had escaped without notice. As I walked away I looked up to see a young girl staring at me with a blank look like someone just farted in her face. I was about to ask her "did someone fart in your face?" but before I opened my mouth, I realized that I had farted in her face. I just sort of stared back and said "sorry 'bout that" and carried on. On my ride home I thought "did I really just do that?". The answer was yes.
That's right, I'm THAT guy. The guy wearing sweat pants with the hairy back that farts without regard for public safety. I know I have many more years to go and I'm starting to wonder how much worse I can get...
