As we continue to grow and change here at The Smiling Goat Soap Company, we have decided to switch roles now and again. My dear wife has decided that the first of the month should be a blog from a different perspective. My perspective.
I am starting to embrace the good that comes from turning into an old man and the confusion that also follows when looking at the world around me. As my grandfather used to say, folks ate in their homes and used an outhouse in my day. Now everyone goes out to eat and uses a restroom in the house. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the meaning. Now I can say so much about today’s world that seems utterly backward to me.
Years ago, it was a badge of honor to be the old man with big bushy eyebrows that could get away with complaining loudly and inappropriately about anything and everything. Any big eyebrowed man could fuss if traffic were moving too fast or too slow. The outrageous prices are everywhere. Nothing tells the checkout kid at Staples that it has nothing to do with the cost of printer ink and that you have the right to complain, like those giant face puffs. Recently oversized eyebrows have become a popular trend among young ladies. The universal sign of, he may be a bit unhinged. He has nothing to do but complain has been turned into nothing more than a trend like yoga pants. (If a man that wears bibbed overalls every day sees an issue with the amount of stretch those britches are expected to take, there is an issue)
Worn-out britches is another stolen old man status symbol. There is no better way to tell the world; I hate to shop, I prefer comfort over style, and I am cheap. As we go out, I cannot help but notice that brand new, worn out is becoming more and more of a trend. The message these clothes present is deceitful. Not only does said clothes wearer shop, they trendy shop and overspend on worn out. I can only compare it to getting a doctorate from a mail-order university in the Caiman Islands. You cheated!
This time of year, we do not have much time to waste in front of the TV. When we do, the programming is controlled by a thirteen-year-old channel commander. Within a short amount of time, I realize I do not understand what is happening. Her fascination for American Idol brings to my attention: 1) I don’t get popular trends 2) I don’t even know who the judges are. Just that the judges were popular trends longer. Five minutes into any episode, I always ask, is that good? Is that person famous?
After a few months of limited viewing, certain things seem strange when I think about it—all of the commercials for meds. I cannot help but feel some sense of sympathy for anyone that dedicated that much of their life to becoming a doctor, an actual doctor, not a Caiman Island doctor, and then be advised by someone who watched a commercial. Can you imagine spending hours on visits, lab work, devising a plan of action, and being told that the commercial said this pill is the cure? Who is claiming the benefits of said pill? That is right. The people are making a profit on the pill. Then the entire conversation turns to the power of Google knowledge. If this scenario was presented within the first week of med school, there would be fewer doctors worldwide. What always gets me with commercials about medications is the number of side effects. For the love of God, it makes your fingernails grow faster, but the 40 seconds of speed-reading side effects seem to make it not worth it. Before listening to the side effects, I had no idea what the perineum was. (Good use of Google) Thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, I know the correct name for that part of the body as well, as a side effect of certain medicines is an infection, sometimes deadly of said perineum. We cannot all check out of this world with a Rambo-like obituary, but the self-induced, deadly perineum infection would make an interesting read.
It is no wonder with all of the changes, and everything is upside down and inside out, the young men of today are oblivious to anything when they show interest in the daughter. Son, I am not explaining trajectories because I want a shooting buddy. The fact that I can do ten years on my head isn’t because I am looking to set a world record. I am not explaining that pigs can indeed eat anything, so you are aware of the possible diet options of said pig. Thankfully, we are a few years away from the dreaded day a car pulls up to pick up The Bean for any reason. I no longer have faith in the simple saying, she cries, you cry. Hopefully, by then, I will be more with the times and relevant. I am not sure that will be the case; I am planning the timeless knife sharpening and simply grunting on the arrival of a young man.
As I struggle through the beginning of middle-age manhood and the stolen paradise of old manhood, I cannot help but think that perhaps some support group is in order. The thought of occasionally meeting up with folks in the same boat for breakfast is beginning to seem like a good idea. However, it is a meal, not a ceremony. I don’t think I would do well watching hash be chewed for an hour. Meals are made to be devoured and moved on.
Until next month, wash your perineum.