Dads aren’t as dopey as toy commercials claimed
The geezer counting out his change lost track and started counting over. The kid in his 20s bouncing behind him let loose a tirade about the doltishness of old people.
“What is this, a nursing home?” the youngster groused. “I mean, look at that guy. He has to be in his 60s. He’s ancient!”
Well pardon my silver hair and Medicare card, but 60s is not — I repeat, NOT — old!
It used to be old, but it’s not anymore.
Back in the last century, I knew that anyone in his or her 40s had surpassed their “best used by” expiration date and could be ignored as feeble of mind. I was 14 at the time.
In those primitive times, the average television sitcom taught me that dads were doofuses easily outmaneuvered by their precocious kids. (But you had to watch out for Mom, who knew all.)
Toy commercials showed kids always stomping hapless ol’ Dad at the latest cool game that Milton Bradley or Hasbro demanded that we beg our parents to buy.
Through some glitch in the universe, the dad who lived at my house always won whatever game we played.
“You’ll never get better if I let you win,” he said as he collected the last of my Monopoly money.
“You learn more from losing than from someone handing you a trophy for doing nothing,” he said as he laid down his last domino.
My father never did get the hang of the rules of dopey dads. He even insinuated that I wasn’t nearly as smart as I thought.
To paraphrase Mark Twain, when I was 14, my dad was the most ignorant man in the world. By the time I reached 30 and had kids of my own, I was surprised at how much the old guy had learned.
I tried to impart the wisdom of the seasoned to the impertinent kid in his 20s chafing in the checkout line.
“Son, you may have misjudged the intelligence of the guy counting out his change,” I said. “All those pennies clutter up the nightstand if you don’t get rid of them.”
The kid swung around and eyed me. “What, did I land in the middle of a wrinklies convention?”
He gestured at the guy in front. “Look at what he’s wearing. Did he get dressed in the dark? No sane person would go out looking like… like… THAT!”
First of all, we’re old enough to value comfort over tugging on something stupid just because it’s “in style.”
Secondly, if our fashion sense is so senseless, why are you shelling out more than I used to make in a week for clothes I discarded decades ago? I wore those styles long before they resurfaced as some high-priced look referred to as “vintage.”
I’d still wear my blue-and-gold plaid flares if they still fit. The only reason I don’t is because they shrank over the years. Apparently, “vintage” means shriveled and threadbare.
“Exactly,” the kid snapped. “You ‘vintage’ guys need to finish shriveling up and go away.”
“The doctor says I’m not shriveling,” I said. “Tell you what, why don’t you just hum along to the song playing over store speakers? It’s one of my favorites.”
“I’m not into oldies.”
“Oldies? This was on the radio all the time when I was in high school. It’s practically brand new.”
“When did you graduate?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right. It was about 20 years ago, in 1978.”
“Twenty years ago was…” The kid punched buttons on his cellphone. “…2004. I bet that in 1978, you still used stone tablets and chisels.”
I thought growing old would take longer.
I dug around in my pocket, found a fistful of change and tossed it at the pile of coins on the counter.
“Oops, I’m sorry. Did I mess up your count? Now you’ll have to start over?” I winked. “Take your time. The boy, here, could use a bit of aging. His whining isn’t fine.”
Don’t mess with the ancient ones. Our doofus dads taught us well how to deal with the insolence of youth.
Placate the old man at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.