Gray Beards and Surprised Koalas

The aging process is a heartless phenomenon made only slightly less terrible by the fact that it happens very slowly, and also not only to you, but to everybody else around you.

However, even though the decaying of one’s body is a gradual process that affects the global population, there are still landmark moments that can slap you in the face, and it’s how you react to these moments that measure the true depths of your character. Do you laugh it off as an inevitability of life, as a milestone of something you have no control over, or do you instead freak out and start throwing things?

Personally, I recently chose option 2.

You see, about a year or two ago I was looking intently in the mirror, wondering why my nose had decided to grow in such a funny way, when all of sudden I saw it: a single solitary white hair nestled comfortably in my beard.

“Hi there!” it seemed to say. “Your life is over!! Also, don’t bother to pluck me, as reinforcements will soon be coming!”

While the memory of my immediate reaction is a bit hazy, I’m pretty sure it involved me verbalizing the following: “YYAAARRRRGGGHHH!!!!!” Then, once I’d thrown a few things across the room, I decided to buy a Corvette and go on a backpacking trip to find myself.

Soon after, however, reality began to set in. First and foremost, I would look stupid in a Corvette. I mean, really stupid. Also, finding myself seemed like a lot of work that I really didn’t want to put in, not to mention the fact that no matter what I did, the white hair would still be there.

So I decided that for better or worse, I’d just have to live with it.

At first my strategy consisted simply of not looking at myself in the mirror. However, after a few spinach-stuck-in-the-teeth incidents, I realized that I couldn’t hide from myself forever. I had to accept what was happening and make peace with it.

Reluctantly, I turned to the mirror and began to picture what I’d look like as more and more of my beard turned white and/or gray. At first it was hard, but soon I began to have visions of others who’d gone through it before me:

Sean Connery

Gandalf the White

Willie Nelson

Jim Leyland

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Then it hit me. For some unknown reason, when a man goes gray he suddenly begins to emit an aura of great wiseness and maturity, even if he’s the type of person who can’t operate a revolving door without injuring himself. It’s one of life’s great mysteries. Why is it that all it takes is some salt and pepper in a man’s hair to instantly make him look like the type of person you’d want as your mentor, your financial adviser, your airplane pilot?

Upon realizing this, I smiled. This was great! My beard was eventually going to make me look wiser! And more mature! And more dignified! And the best part was, I’d never been, nor will I ever be, wise or mature! I mean, just yesterday I literally spent 10 minutes at work giggling at the following picture of a surprised koala:

Honestly, I had to leave the room in order to not disturb those around me! That’s surely not somebody you’d want flying your plane or architecting your retirement plan!

So now I don’t even care when a new white hair pops up in my beard. In fact, I’ve begun to look forward to them, and when I do spot a new one when looking in the mirror, I smile and say, “Getting wiser, I see!”

Gray = Wise is one of life’s ultimate farces, and I’m now looking forward to perpetuating it for many years to come. So, ask me your questions about retirement, mortgages, aviation, or just life in general! I’ll be sure to make up something that sounds wise and gives you comfort! It’s my duty as a graying man!

Unless, of course, I’m too busy giggling at the picture of the surprised koala.

Three's a Crowd

This probably won’t come as a surprise to many of you, but I’m nothing if not a man of consistency. When I find something that works, I stick with it, as evidenced by my trusty Honda, my ever-growing collection of Dave Barry books, and my timeless love for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And so, quite naturally, my need for uniformity has played a large role in the development of my wardrobe, specifically my collection of baseball hats:

Yes, those are 3 different versions of the exact same hat, and no, I don’t buy them in bulk. Now, before you ask any more questions, let me explain my reasons for owning them.

Reason One:

These hats are black and drab, which is a critical component to my style. (The Drab Forgettable Look) The last thing I’d ever want to do is stand out in a crowd (shudder), and a drab black hat goes a long way in helping me fade comfortably into any given background. Basically, it’s social camouflage.

Reason Two:

It takes the thinking out of matching. You see, I’m terrible at coordinating colors, mainly because there’s way too many of them, which confuses me to no end. (I mean, is fuchsia really a thing, and if so, is it really necessary?) Take a standard color wheel. If you were to show me one, I’d immediately get dizzy and have to lie down and rest for a while. There’s just too much going on with it, to the point where over the years I’ve been forced to develop my own personal version:

And so – with the help of this simplified color wheel – I’ve decided that black is the way to go in terms of my hat color, since it seems to match just about everything I own, including my ill-fitting J.C. Penney suit that I’ve worn only twice (both to costume parties), my swimming trunks, and, most importantly, my collection of drab black, gray, and blue shirts.

Reason Three:

The Adidas logos on these hats don’t jump out, which is something that’s very important to me, as I don’t want to be a corporate shill. Unless a logo has something to do with the Upper Peninsula, United States national parks, or the George Strait 2005 Somewhere Down in Texas tour, I don’t want it standing out. “Mind your own business” is my motto for logos that adorn my wardrobe.

But why, you might ask, do I have three versions of the exact same hat? Are you really that lazy? Well, to be honest with you, it’s because I made a terrible mistake. I probably should have stuck with just two.

You see, I had a good system going for a while. I owned two hats, one old and one sort of new. The old hat (used for semi-formal, festive, and casual occasions) was dirty, faded, and smelled like campfire. The newer hat (used for black tie, white tie, and formal occasions) was slightly less dirty and faded, and its smell had yet to reach the point of turning heads. Basically, it was the perfect system. I either wore the old hat or the newer hat, and the simple choice helped to keep my stress levels low.

Then, however, in a fit of what I thought was inspiration – but which I later realized was a brief bout of insanity – one day I had the following thought: “Two hats are good, but wouldn’t a third one make things even better?”

At the time it sort of made sense. My old hat was getting quite ragged, to the point where the possibility of it dissolving in a stiff gust of wind seemed very real. So, I figured that by buying a third hat I could begin to phase out the old hat, namely by relegating it solely to campfire and sports duty. Then, what had once been the newer hat (and which would now become the middle hat) could take over some of the duties of the old hat, while the newly purchased hat would immediately be used for high-class gatherings, such as going to Kwik Trip or the ATM. Then, whenever the old hat did give up the ghost, the middle hat would seamlessly slide down to become the new old hat, while the newly-purchased hat would become the new newer hat, officially restoring the two-hat system! Got it?

However, I wasn’t counting on the old hat being as stubborn and ornery as it is. (I think it takes after me.) You see, no matter how many fires I've attended or how many sports I've played, it’s simply refused to give up the ghost. In fact, it’s gotten to the point where I’ve now quite certain it’s going to outlive me, and perhaps even modern civilization.

In addition, I’ve also realized that the newly purchased hat is, well, too new. It’s not faded at all, and it still has that annoying new hat smell. In short, it has no character, and when I look at it, I find myself thinking, “Why on earth would I want to wear you? What have you ever done to deserve that?” I then grab the middle hat and wear it instead, because it's been around the proverbial block a time or two, and I trust it.

So now I’m stuck with three hats: One that’s so ratty I’m sometimes mistaken for a hobo when I wear it, one that’s so new I can’t stomach to wear it at all, and one that’s just about right. Now, as you can probably guess, this disruption of the two-hat system has raised my stress levels to unacceptable heights, leaving me no choice but to search high and low for a solution.

The main problem I’m been having with reverting back to a two-hat system is that I simply hate to get rid of one. Throwing out the old hat seems insensitive, since it’s been so loyal to me over the years, and junking the new one because it’s just too new is plain silly. Luckily, I’m a problem solver by nature, and so I’ve finally come up with a solution, one that just so happens to involve you.

Yes, you. Now listen up.

If you ever see me wearing my old hat (you’ll know it because you’ll wonder why I have a dead animal on my head) I want you to steal it from me, run away, and either burn it or blow it up in some sort of dramatic explosion. Warning: Even though this is my idea, I might still attempt to chase you down, and perhaps even beat you with a blunt object, as I'm quite fond of that hat. However, remember that it’s for the greater good! If you succeed, my middle hat will then by default become my old hat, and the two-hat system will finally be restored! Then, after I cry a little over my loss, all that'd be left for me to do is jump up and down on my new hat for an hour or so, just to give it a little character.

Plus, you’d even get a reward out of the deal, as I promise that I'll take you out to lunch.

We’ll have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

My Kind Of Place

I was deep in the country, having traveled west from the suburbs in the hopes of finding a morning meal not cooked by me, and as I stepped into the small-town restaurant shortly after its opening time of 6:00 a.m., I realized that I’d stumbled upon one of those rare places where I immediately felt like I belonged.

The main reason for this was the half-dozen patrons already present at that early hour, all of whom were grumpy-looking old men. You see, I plan to someday become a grumpy-looking old man myself, and here I was, in what appeared to be their natural Saturday morning habitat! What an opportunity to observe and learn!

The first thing I noted was that even though I was in a small town where everybody had to know each other, none of the grumpy-looking old men were sitting together. In fact, they’d carefully positioned themselves in such a way that ensured the maximum amount of distance between each other. Clearly, this was a place where one’s personal space was valued, which in itself was enough to vault it into my Top 10 Restaurant list.

Being relatively young, I knew that I stuck out like a sort thumb, and so I found the best possible place to sit that wouldn’t infringe on anybody’s personal space and made a beeline for it. I nodded to one of the customers as I passed by, and he politely returned the gesture, but I could tell he was suspicious. I obviously wasn’t from around here. Also, I wasn’t a grumpy-looking old man. Yet.

The waitress came over and I ordered coffee, because that’s what Jack Reacher would do, and then I began to soak up one of the most unique experiences of my life.

It was quiet, so very, very quiet. Obviously, a lot of the silence was a direct result of the personal space rule, but even when the waitress topped off the cup of one of the grumpy-looking old men, their conversation was subdued, to-the-point, and generally seemed to focus on the topics of celery, tomatoes, and mud. Nobody was showing off here. This was a serious place for serious people, and although I’d only been inside for a few minutes, I could sense that foolishness of any kind would immediately be met with multiple passive-aggressive glares. What a place! It was no wonder I was falling in love with it! Heck, I excel at passive-aggressive glares!

The overwhelming silence, however, was not in the least bit awkward, and instead could only be described as blissful. How refreshing to sit in a public place without anybody striving in some way for attention! My entire body relaxed, and I sipped at my coffee and eventually ordered a meal. I’d take this over a day at the beach anytime! (Unless maybe nobody was at the beach and they served coffee there.)

The closest thing to excitement that broke out during my visit was a brief conversation between two of the grumpy-looking old men. They were sitting about 5 or 6 booths from each other, and their discussion was held with slightly raised voices. The topic at hand had something to do with celery, tomatoes, or mud, but it didn’t last long. Points were succinctly made, and silence soon returned to the restaurant.

It wasn’t, however, a complete silence. There was background music to contend with, in the form of a radio tuned into a pop station. It seemed to me to be an odd choice, and as Taylor Swift was singing “Blank Space,” I kept waiting for one of the grumpy-looking old men to pull out a pistol and shoot the speaker off the wall.

But then again, who am I to say? I’m not yet a grumpy-looking old man, and so why should I assume I know anything about their musical tastes? While I couldn’t help but imagine that most of them would rather listen to Earnest Tubb than Taylor Swift (as would I), perhaps I was completely misjudging them.

I wanted to ask the closest grumpy-looking old man about this, but I held myself back. I’d gotten away with a polite nod to him earlier, but I didn’t think an actual conversation would fly. No matter how comfortable I felt, I was still an outsider, and I was deeply afraid of being on the receiving end of a terrifying passive-aggressive glare.

My meal soon arrived, and since I was quite hungry it didn’t take me long to work my way through it. I then sighed contentedly, and as I pushed away my plate and began to think about paying the bill, I realized that in the time I’d been in the restaurant, nobody who’d arrived before me had left. They obviously weren’t distracting themselves with frivolous conversation, and, assuming they weren’t all slow eaters, I came to the conclusion that grumpy-looking old men spend the majority of their Saturday mornings sitting in quiet restaurants, either because they have nothing better to do or because their wives have a honey-do list waiting for them at home. Either way, it sounded like a wonderful way to spend a Saturday morning, and I felt my motivation to someday become a grumpy-looking old man growing by leaps and bounds.

Not long after, I left my tip and stood up. No matter how at-home I felt in my quiet little booth, I couldn’t sit there any longer. I hadn’t yet earned the right to linger over a completed meal for hours on end like the grumpy-looking old men were doing, and the best thing I could do was leave before I upset the natural balance of things even more than I already had.

As I paid the waitress at the front desk, we chatted briefly about the weather, mainly because I didn’t know much about celery or tomatoes or mud, and soon after I found myself walking towards my car, wondering what all the grumpy-looking old men were doing now that I was gone. I imagined them all still sitting there, quietly listening to Taylor Swift, sipping coffee, and practicing their passive-aggressive glares, but perhaps my assessment was wrong. Maybe as soon as I drove away the entire place would erupt into song and dance, with each grumpy-looking old man playing an instrument of their choice. I mean, how was I to know? No matter how much I want to be one, I’m still not a grumpy-looking old man, and there’s bound to be plenty I have to learn on the subject. However, when I do finally reach that point in my life, I’m pretty sure I’m going to spend a lot of my time in restaurants such as the one I discovered on that rainy Saturday morning. It was definitely my kind of place.

Missing: One Voice

It’s been said that 93% of all communication is non-verbal. However, after recently conducting an impromptu scientific experiment on the matter, I can now confirm that whoever came up with that statistic is either a liar-liar-pants-on-fire or a person who never lost their voice for a semi-extended period of time.

It all started on a Saturday, when my immune system, which obviously had been up late partying the night before and wanted to sleep in, didn’t hear its alarm go off and never reported for duty. Unable to protect myself, a virus of some sort quickly descended upon me, leaving me not only exhausted, but also with a sore throat and a fading voice. Things quickly went downhill, and by the early evening I’d been rendered nearly mute, to the point where anything I did manage to say sounded like it was coming out of an 85-year old chain-smoker who was gargling marbles.

Cursing my lazy immune system, which had since woken up and sheepishly apologized for its woeful lack of vigilance, I spent most of Sunday resting and recuperating, which was helpful in that by evening I felt good enough to resume day-to-day activities, but which unfortunately did nothing to restore my golden baritone.

I need next to mention that I was in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at the time, and also that Monday was my day to drive back to the Twin Cities. Now, while this may seem like the perfect opportunity for vocal rest, you must also consider the “Singing Along to the Radio” factor. I mean, what’s the point of driving for 7 hours straight if you can’t bellow out mournful country songs with an intensity that would frighten most normal people? Needless to say, the drive was very frustrating. I tried to listen to music, but being unable to harmonize with the likes of George Strait and Merle Haggard soon turned me to talk radio, which quickly made me hate the world and everybody in it. My only solace was junk food, which propelled me through Wisconsin while expanding my waistline by a good several inches. Feeling the effects of extreme-chocolate-overload, I then somehow made my way through rural Minnesota and back home to the Twin Cities.

On Tuesday morning I started what I’ve since coined the Woohoo! test. Upon waking up, in order to assess the high end of my vocal register, I tried to let loose with a hearty “woohoo!” It was, however, a complete failure, and I produced almost no sound. Disheartened, I headed to work, where I labored with a raspy, broken voice that made me feel like I was going through adolescence again. Soon I’d picked up the nickname “Whispers,” and finally, by mid-afternoon, my voice had given out completely, leaving me no choice but to communicate via hand-gestures, such as the classic “thumbs-up,” along with the always entertaining “finger pistols.”

My updated name tag. Don’t ask about the Dennis Eckersley card.

On Wednesday morning the Woohoo! test again failed miserably. However, the deeper end of my voice had begun to come back, which happily allowed me to sing the “Giddy Up, Oom Poppa Oom Poppa Mow Mow” part of “Elvira” in the shower. Alas, in a cruel turn of fate, my nose decided that then was the perfect time to start running profusely, and a nagging cough had also begun to manifest itself. Too stubborn to admit defeat, I spent the day at work being Annoying Sniffly Guy Who Should Have Stayed Home But Didn’t Because He Doesn’t Consider Anybody But Himself. (Yeah I know, I hate that guy too.)

Luckily, the rest of the week went a lot better, and the Woohoo! test progressed each morning until my voice had completely returned. The “Whispers” name tag was taken down the next week, and things have since returned pretty much to normal.

Overall, going for roughly four days without the ability to easily communicate via vocalization was much more difficult than I ever would have expected. While I consider myself to be a fairly quiet person, there were still many times when I wanted to contribute to conversations but didn’t, mainly because my ridiculously raspy voice was almost unintelligible, not to mention a bit embarrassing. At one point I was trying to book a hotel over the phone for an upcoming vacation, and being barely able to speak made it an exercise in silliness:

Hotel Guy: “Okay, can you give me your name?”

Me: “K**t I****s*n.”

Hotel Guy: “Did you say, Dirt Eyes In One?”

Me: “No! “Ku*t I*****on!”

Hotel Guy: “Cute as a Lion?”

Me: “No!”

Hotel Guy: “I’m just going to put you down as Guy Jones.”

Me: “Ok.”

The moral of the story? Don’t lose your voice. However, if you do, please make sure to seek me out. I really want to pass on the Whispers nickname.

Epiphanies and Water Heaters

Recently, I had an epiphany. However, before you get too excited, you should know that it wasn’t a life-changing epiphany. Heck, it wasn’t even a mid-level epiphany. In fact, now that I think about it, it may not have even been an epiphany at all, and instead more of a mundane realization on steroids. Regardless, I’ve used the word “epiphany” a number of times now, so I’m just going to have to stick with it.

Let’s start at the beginning, which, like so many other compelling tales, involves water heaters.

You see, the water heater that came with my house was somewhere along the lines of eight-thousand years old, give or take a century, which basically made it the Mr. Burns of water heaters.

"Excellent"

If it had ever sprung a leak and flooded the house, or exploded into a gigantic fireball reminiscent of a scene from a summer blockbuster movie, the only rational response I could have had was, “I’m surprised this didn’t happen in 1997.” And so, with this in mind, I decided to get a new one, and, calling upon the can-do spirit of the pioneers of yesteryear – who built an entire nation with their own two hands – I rolled up my sleeves, put on my big-boy pants, and heartily used my phone to hire out the work.

The hardest part was scheduling a time for the install with the salesman I spoke with. Apparently, the people who install water heaters like to do so during the typical workday (who’d have thought?), and so I had a choice between 9:00 to noon and noon to 4:00 on the selected day. Without hesitation, I chose noon to 4:00, mainly because I’m philosophically opposed to taking a half-day of vacation during the morning hours. (If I’m going to be tired and useless, I may as well be tired and useless at work, right?) The salesman agreed to this, and with that accomplished, I went about my business of staring vacantly out of the window.

Then, about a week later, which was also the day before the water heater was supposed to be delivered, I received a phone call from the actual people who’d be doing the install, wondering if 9:00 to noon would be a good time for them to come.

After I finished hemorrhaging internally, I calmly explained that 9:00 to noon would not, in fact, work out, and that I’d already scheduled it from 12:00 to 4:00. The representative told me she’d see if she could make it work, and then promised to call back.

As you’d probably expect, as I hung up the phone I was both angry and annoyed. The salesman promised me 9:00 to noon, and I’d already taken that time off work! How inefficient a program were they running to have such a disconnect between the people making the promises and the people doing the actual work?

Then came the epiphany: As a computer programmer, I’ve been intimately involved in this situation many times before, and it always goes something like this:

Management: Hey, there’s a new project we need you to get on.

Me: What is it?

Management (after telling me what it is): How long will it take?

Me: About 3 weeks.

Management: Is there any chance you could do it in 1?

Me: No.

Management: Are you sure?

Me: Yes. It’s physically impossible to do in a single week. In fact, 3 weeks is probably pushing it.

Management: Oh… well, the sales guys promised the customer it'd be done in a week.

Me: Can we get somebody to help me with it?

Management: No, everybody else is scrambling to finish previous projects with unrealistic timelines set by the sales guys.

Me (with a sigh):  I suppose I could sleep at the office…

Management: If you’re going to be eating from the vending machines, I’m going to need you to sign the proper waiver forms.

Suddenly, I was no longer angry at the person who’d just called me. She was my mirror image, somebody working on the actual implementation side of the equation, and she was probably just trying to make things fit logistically on her end. In my mind, the sales guy had probably scheduled an unrealistic amount of installs from noon to 4:00 on that day, and she was just trying to make it all work. (“Okay, according to this we have to be in two… three… four places at once this afternoon. Hey, that’s better than usual! We barely even have to break the laws of physics!”)

And so, even though I’d probably already known it at a subconscious level for some time, I came to the realization that computer programmers aren’t the only ones routinely thrown under the proverbial bus by the sales people, and I vowed then and there to try and keep this in mind when working with anybody on the implementation side of things in matters such as these.

And I highly recommend that you do, too.

(Also, if you’re wondering, they were eventually able to fit me in from noon to 4:00, although I’m pretty sure time travel was involved.)