A couple weeks ago I was spending an afternoon sitting out on the porch of my residence at my fellowship, sipping some Courvosier, smoking my pipe, when I saw two disheveled youth walking along our fence. As they passed a gap in the hedge, one of them threw an empty cigarette pack into our yard. “HEY! Pick that up!” I shouted in a semi-contrived baritone. The guilty party immediately froze, quickly stuck his leg through the fence, and shuffled the empty pack back to his side to pick up. They continued on their way without a word.

Last week I bought some new shoes. I was torn between a pair of blue Sperry canvas topsiders and a pair of brown Italian loafers. At the advice of all those present – personally and electronically, I went with the Sperry’s. Though upon arriving at home I realized they weren’t me. Too blue. Too colorful. Too young. I went back and exchanged them for the oh-so-comfortable loafers. The one’s that look like my dad.

Yesterday I bought a car. I ended up getting a 2005 Ford Five Hundred. One friend asked if it came with a pair of plaid pants. Another called it a granny car. I think it purrs. And it has [faux] wood trim. I was excited to hear my first Garth Brooks song in it; then I realized how ironic it was. It was “Much too young to feel this damn old.”

Tags: Age

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