About The Funk...

Observational Spittle from the mind of a man of color in his 40s, without the color added (most times). Come in, laugh, and you may learn something...

90 Things That Irritate The Sh** Out Of Me Trailer

Thursday, June 4, 2009

grip-y funky mess

I was in the supermarket earlier today, shopping for my kid's 7th b-day party. The "big boy" was tagging along, shortly after having a slight meltdown cuz he couldn't take his "Transformer" cake with him 2 days before the big day. After I had my slight parental meltdown, chastising him about his bratty-ness (and because I felt like warmed over tampon drippings from some sort of bug I got a hold of) I was looking for some Hawaiian Punch for my wife and myself (because, well, God knows I want to hasten my death on by pouring sugar-loaded fake fruit drinks down my gullet). Anyway, as I was looking for my death juice, I happen to noticed this older Caucasian fellow, with red hair, a pony tail, about middle aged....

...and a big ol' dome missing a good chunk of his hair.

And my man thought he was hipper than Jimi H during Woodstock.

Now, as I approach my 40th birthday in less than 2 months, I have accepted that, well, I am not going to turn a 21 year old's head anymore (wait, I didn't do that when I was 21....I didn't get sexy until my 25 to 27 year old "I like to bang like a drum" period). I am 75 lbs overweight, look like I am 7 months pregnant, and keep an oxygen tank at the top of the stairs at my home (ok, no oxygen, but if I don't lose weight soon, it may come to pass). Yet here is this fellow, my guess probably about 10 years older than I, with this smugness about him, thinking he could score any babe, do anything, be anywhere....

Despite the kick ass plaid shorts, golf shirt, and sandals he was wearing.

We men are pretty sad children at times, myself included.

As I approach my 40th year, I know that I am not necessarily handling it well. I have always been fearful of my mortality, and I think that my silliness at times (for those who actually still talk to me at this point; I can count my contacts on the loose pube hair in my drawers) is a barrier against the beginning of advancing age....sort of a useless attempt to make me still feel hip and young...

...despite the fact that I couldn't attract a toejam from a unraveling sock at this point in life.

So after I completed my errands, my boy and I, the one who will be 18 when I am 50, started to stroll out to my truck to head home. That same "hip dude" with the need for Rogaine and the
dy-no-mite" pony tail hopped into his hot little sports car, pulled out his cell phone, and sped off.

I looked at my boy, my anger already dissipated from his earlier rant, and smiled as I watched him buckle himself in his seat. I took a deep sigh, and then put my key in my ignition.

Men are deathly afraid of their mortality, aren't they? I doubt I am the only dude who misses the day when they could run forever, play sports (even if they couldn't field to save their life), thought that they could do anything, and had dreams....

...and believed they had plenty of time.

Then they turn around and see their children, and realize that is their turn to dream, and play, and think they have all the time in the world.

It's my job as a dad to help him enjoy that while it lasts....and maybe see him get some of those dreams as well, stay healthy so he can play as long as possible, and well, not become a mulatto child with balding and a funky ponytail.

The sports car, though, would be cool...as long as he lets his old man drive it once in a while.

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