I have a solemn confession to make. In a couple months, I am turning 50. Even as I type this I’m imagining anyone affiliated with my career making a frantic dash for my computer. “You work in television, you can’t admit that! Quick, say that you’re turning 8. Or that you haven’t been born yet.” Please. I refuse to believe that show business is that shallow or superficial. If I stop getting hired it won’t be because I’m turning 50 this year. It’ll be because I wasn’t on Friends when I was 30 Obviously there are parts of aging that are indisputably awful — declining health, imminent death, having to watch shows where Tom Selleck solves crimes with the help of his mustache. But one that’s less obvious is the way age sneaks up on you without you even realizing it.
Apparently, I am now so fucking old, that I didn’t realize that still being on AOL means “you’re so fucking old.” I’ll be honest, until a year ago, I had no idea that in today’s workplace, receiving your email via AOL is roughly the equivalent of having it handed to you by the town’s telegraph operator. Did the world send out notifications in the mail that it wasn’t hip anymore? I guess I would have missed it anyway. I was too busy waiting by the mailbox for my free installation discs.
Now that I know, there is no more withering glare on the planet than telling a millennial your email address and ending with the words “aol.com”. I could pass out White Supremacist literature at the Purim Carnival and get a friendlier reception. It’s that kind of withering glare that says “Sir, Smash Mouth tickets are the next aisle over.” That says “Do you mind pumping your Reeboks outside? Preferably while waiting for your Pontiac Aztec to be serviced.” Let’s face it, they see your lips moving but all they hear coming out of your mouth is the dial-up tone.
It’s happening in other ways, too. Some are somewhat obvious, like using Facebook or listening to music where guys play guitar (which is only referred to dismissively by all the music blogs I read as ‘dad rock”). I didn’t know that no one wears faded Gap baggy jeans anymore until a TV executive asked if I was on my way to a 90’s costume party. I’m still the only guy at the beach who hasn’t waxed his chest hair. God help me if I was on The Bachelorette.
It’s weird. I don’t feel 50. Frankly, I still think I’m 18. Probably because I only post #tbts of me from when I was 18. But 50 is actually a long time. Fifty years before I was born, Woodrow Wilson was the President. The Who is celebrating their 50th anniversary this year with a farewell tour. I saw their first farewell tour in 1982 and already thought then that they were the oldest people on the planet.
The truth is, I don’t really feel my age until I see other people’s response to me. Last month, when the young people at work were dancing, I did what I’ve always done — started breakdancing. Now, even as a teenager, I was probably never an empirically “good breakdancer.” My hunch is people were grading me on a curve. I was a good breakdancer for a Jewish guy. In a madras shirt. At a debate tournament.But now, watching others watch the video of my attempted backspin the next day, I realized people no longer were enjoying my dancing because I was good. I’ve become, without realizing it, the funny fat old uncle at the wedding trying to Whip and Nae Nae, who ends up on YouTube. Best case scenario: I’m Rerun from What’s Happening. I’m Rapping Granny. I’m the old lady who rides into a sitcom on a Harley yelling “Cowabunga, let’s get some hunks.”
Apparently, I am now so fucking old, that I didn’t realize that still being on AOL means “you’re so fucking old.” I’ll be honest, until a year ago, I had no idea that in today’s workplace, receiving your email via AOL is roughly the equivalent of having it handed to you by the town’s telegraph operator. Did the world send out notifications in the mail that it wasn’t hip anymore? I guess I would have missed it anyway. I was too busy waiting by the mailbox for my free installation discs.
Now that I know, there is no more withering glare on the planet than telling a millennial your email address and ending with the words “aol.com”. I could pass out White Supremacist literature at the Purim Carnival and get a friendlier reception. It’s that kind of withering glare that says “Sir, Smash Mouth tickets are the next aisle over.” That says “Do you mind pumping your Reeboks outside? Preferably while waiting for your Pontiac Aztec to be serviced.” Let’s face it, they see your lips moving but all they hear coming out of your mouth is the dial-up tone.
It’s happening in other ways, too. Some are somewhat obvious, like using Facebook or listening to music where guys play guitar (which is only referred to dismissively by all the music blogs I read as ‘dad rock”). I didn’t know that no one wears faded Gap baggy jeans anymore until a TV executive asked if I was on my way to a 90’s costume party. I’m still the only guy at the beach who hasn’t waxed his chest hair. God help me if I was on The Bachelorette.
It’s weird. I don’t feel 50. Frankly, I still think I’m 18. Probably because I only post #tbts of me from when I was 18. But 50 is actually a long time. Fifty years before I was born, Woodrow Wilson was the President. The Who is celebrating their 50th anniversary this year with a farewell tour. I saw their first farewell tour in 1982 and already thought then that they were the oldest people on the planet.
The truth is, I don’t really feel my age until I see other people’s response to me. Last month, when the young people at work were dancing, I did what I’ve always done — started breakdancing. Now, even as a teenager, I was probably never an empirically “good breakdancer.” My hunch is people were grading me on a curve. I was a good breakdancer for a Jewish guy. In a madras shirt. At a debate tournament.But now, watching others watch the video of my attempted backspin the next day, I realized people no longer were enjoying my dancing because I was good. I’ve become, without realizing it, the funny fat old uncle at the wedding trying to Whip and Nae Nae, who ends up on YouTube. Best case scenario: I’m Rerun from What’s Happening. I’m Rapping Granny. I’m the old lady who rides into a sitcom on a Harley yelling “Cowabunga, let’s get some hunks.”
