I couldn’t find my keys anywhere this morning.
It’s not unusual for this to happen to me – I typically leave about ten minutes each morning for “the hunt,” a frenzied search of my house to locate my keys under couch cushions, on countertops, in pants pockets. I am one of those people who really needs to invest $4 in a “place keys here” hook for the wall.
But this morning, “the hunt” was going especially poorly. Thirty minutes in, I stood, exasperated, hands on my hips in the middle of the living room, and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. There, in the fridge, next to the Tropicana, was a full set of keys.
I am an old man in a young man’s body. I’ve felt this way for years. Half of my time outdoors is spent scanning the horizon for places to sit down.
So it was especially gratifying for me to discover that I am going grey. It happened very quickly. The best part is I don’t have just one or two grey hairs, I have full-on streaks on the side of my head.
I inherited the trait from my dad, who was white as December by the time he turned 30. I remember he was at a point where he was considering dying it black when my brothers and I were young, and we lost our minds. (He did shave his mustache off unannounced at one point, prompting my little brother to not speak to him for a week).
My friends discovered the start of my graying hair at a barbecue. We were sitting on a deck in the sun, when one of my friends paused mid-sentence.
“You have so much grey hair,” he shouted, noticing it for the first time.
It is especially obvious in the sunlight. Indoors, I have dark brown hair, but outdoors, it’s full on Clooney. This was discovered to the delight of my friends, who merrily crowded around my head and observed with something approaching awe (I assume).
I say bring it on. No hair dye for me - I’ll go full winter-white before I turn 30 if I can. The sooner I get to be referred to as an older gentleman, the better.
After all, my dream morning involves rolling out of bed at 9:30 a.m., slipping on a cardigan sweater and meandering down to the local deli to enjoy a single piece of buttered toast and flip through a newspaper. Ideally, I will sit there in silence for an hour or two.
I’ve got a couple of friends who constantly bemoan their age. “I’m turning 27,” they’ll groan. “I’m so old.” What are you talking about? What are you missing from your younger years? Curfew? Acne? I’ll take my peppermint tea and occasional naps any day of the week.
Let’s not get into the fact that at no point in your 20s should you be having an existential crisis. Who cares about age at all, really?
When I was growing up and some teachers or adults would make a reference to the past and then follow that up with an embarrassed “oops, I’m dating myself,” I would find it really strange. Yes, it is clear you have lived a certain number of years on the planet. No, that is not a bad thing. Over time, human beings age as part of a natural process. Why are you embarrassed about a thing that always happens?
Yes, our media and society loves to glamorize youth and beauty, but that’s usually so they can sell you a variety of skin products. I want to live in a society that glamorizes toast and coffee. Instead of Pantene Pro V commercials, we’d have Sam Elliott singing the praises of Dempster’s whole grain bread.
Even this whole column is a bit of a ramble. It’s got a bit of “in my day” and a bit of “kids these days” feel. I told you, I’m an old man. Bring on the grey.
