In with the Old Guy

I'm a big believer that age, much like 690,131.42, is just a number. But now that I'm officially out of my 20s, I've started to notice certain signs of getting older.

Not my ear... yet.

It began a few months ago where most of my life-changing moments occur -- in the barber's chair. (I still maintain I was just waiting to be discovered to join a boy band in the early aughts when I was rocking the frosted tips.) Maria, who has been cutting my hair for years, was finishing up with the razor when she gently ran it over my outer ear, almost apologetically.

"Better on the outside of the ear than on the inside," I said with a laugh.

"Just wait a few years," the hair follicles in my ear replied with a laugh.

It was my first Old Guy Moment. And while I don't think I'll be needing adult diapers anytime soon, recently I've been paying closer attention to Old Guys to see what's in store for me.

One of the first things I do when I come across an Old Guy is look down, where I inevitably notice white tennis shoes. And not just any sneakers -- these always look beat up, like they've been on a Saturday errand run from hell. Do Old Guys buy the shoes already used? And where, exactly, do they get them? I swear I've never seen white tennis shoes at a shoe store. Maybe they are a dog whistle to an Old Guy. I guess I'll find out if and when I hear the siren's call.

The white tennis shoes on an Old Guy are often accompanied by tucked-in shirts, no matter the outfit. I get tucking the dress shirt into slacks, or a polo shirt into khakis. But do we need to tuck the old T-shirt into the bathing suit? For some men, maybe the tuck/untuck decision comes down to how to best downplay the size of the gut. The simplest solution might be some exercise which, on the plus side, means more time wearing the white tennis shoes.

Speaking of the gym, that's about the only place where you see an Old Guy with messy hair. Let's stipulate that many Old Guys don't have much hair to mess up. That will not be an issue for me, however, since I come from a line of men with full heads of hair. In fact, one of my great ancestors, Josephus Jacobus, had a thriving business in Babylonia selling hairshirts made straight from his scalp.

When it comes to modern-day Old Guys with hair, I've noticed very few use hair products and yet nary a follicle is out of place. When they walk in a breeze, the hair moves with the synchronicity of a rowing team and then immediately falls back in line when the breeze stops.

Right now, the front of my head is trained well but the sides and rear flank remain a Wild West without some hair paste, so I have some work to do (and some years to age). On the other hand, the Old Guy with perfect hair probably has to go to the bathroom every two hours while I'm in the prime years of bladder control, so maybe it all evens out.

The thing about all of these Old Guy traits is, I'm not exactly opposed to them. Maybe they are the Boy Scout badges of advanced manhood. Maybe, when you reach the age when you tuck a T-shirt into your jeans, you don't care that you tucked your T-shirt into jeans. We should all be as comfortable in our skins as an Old Guy.

Which is why I'm kind of looking forward to the journey, as long and filled with bathroom breaks as it might be. That just leaves one question: How long after turning 30 do I receive the Old Guy fannypack?

Tool time

As I've mentioned before, when it comes to home improvement, I'm more Tim Taylor than Al Borland. You know the old saying, "Measure twice, cut once"? I was always more, "Cut four times, measure once and then, maybe, look at the instructions." The handymen I saw most frequently when I was growing up were Moe, Larry and Curly.

I managed to get by as a bachelor living on my own. But once Belle and I moved in together, I realized my days of slightly-crooked pictures on the wall would be coming to an end.

But who knew a marriage license also was a contractor's license? Perhaps it's pride in home ownership or the fact I now possess a level, but I've become quite handy around the house.

It started the day we moved in and Belle wanted me to hang several boards on the wall, including a dry-erase board for our weekly dinner menu. (If you don't keep a weekly dinner menu, you should start immediately. It takes the suspense out of what's for dinner and replaces it with anticipation. Plus, you always know when it's going to be pancakes night and can plan the rest of your day accordingly.)

Don't let the snazzy design fool you -- the two chairs on the left are deadly

Anyways, the boards required two things I was not good at: anchor screws and straight lines. Anchor screws always meant to me "a drilling accident waiting to happen." And even with the aforementioned level, my decorating style could be described as "cockeyed."

Nevertheless,the first project in our new house was a chance for a fresh start I was eager to have. After a few stud-finder jokes (those never get old), I got down to work. I was a little nervous, envisioning our wall pockmarked with small holes as if we lived in a war zone.

But I successfully got the boards on the wall on the first try, much to the shock of myself, Belle, my mother-in-law and probably the construction crews working outside. Whoever invented the anchor screws that you screw, rather than drill, into the wall deserves sainthood.

Alas, there have been some construction hiccups along the way -- and by "hiccups," I mean "the small but noticeable crack on the side of our kitchen table." There also were times I thought Belle bought things just to challenge me, such as the TV stand with more pieces that fit together at right angles than a game of Tetris.

But everything has been built, hanged or installed, often with the help of my father-in-law, who is the best measure-er I have ever met. Some people take life one day at a time; he takes it by the sixteenth of an inch.

Then there were our barstools, which are pictured above. We initially bought two and I thought they looked off after the final turn of my Allen wrench. One of my proudest moments was when a professional handyman, who did in a day what would have taken me 52 years, agreed with me that one of the bar stools was structurally flawed. Finally, it wouldn't be my fault! The online reviews noted the stools were "sturdy but wobbly," which they were, but it got to the point I required guests to sign a waiver before sitting on the chairs.

We ordered new stools recently and, so far, they have remained upright and sturdy. Granted, no one has sat in them, but at least they don't look like death traps.

In the most telling sign of my growing confidence as Mr. Fix-It, I asked for a toolbox for my birthday this year, and not one made by Playskool. The only problem is, there are no more projects left to do. All of the major work required during our moving-and-settling-in phase is complete. I am a hammer looking for a nail.

I can hear some people close to me reading this and thinking, "There is plenty to assemble when you're getting ready for a baby." To which I say, "I wonder when the next pancakes night will be?"

iPod shuffle

An occasional feature where we see what's on my iPod

"My Stupid Mouth," John Mayer: A quick synopsis of every awkward date I had between the ages of 18 and 27. 

"Counting Blue Cars," Dishwalla and "Everything Falls Apart," Dog's Eye View: Both minor, '90s one-hit wonders with something else in common -- both songs mention meeting or wanting to meet God.

In "Counting Blue Cars," the singer reminds us of his biblical appointment repeatedly, almost taunting the listener. "Tell me all your thoughts on God," he croons, "because I'm on my way to see her."

I added that emphasis on "her" to point out the casual way the pronoun is dropped. As an impressionable youth, this blew my mind. God is a woman? Why was this never mentioned in all my years of Hebrew school?

In "Everything Falls Apart," by contrast, our protagonist meets God on a train. And, to be honest, our protagonist is kind of a dick:

I said, "Don't you have
Better things to do?"
He said, "If I do my job
What would you complain about?"

You tell him, God!

So who wins in this battle of the Almighty? I prefer our man in "Everything Falls Apart" because at least he does stuff; "Counting Blue Cars" guy, when not, well, counting blue cars, just broods and whines. On the other hand, "Counting Blue Cars" is much more fun to sing in the car.
 
"Hava Nagila Baltimore Breaks,"Joro-Boro: Because if you can only have one club-remixed version of Hava Nagila, this is the one you want.

"Bleeding Love," Leona Lewis: Belle and I heard the song on the radio recently. Then this conversation happened.

Belle: Whatever happened to her?
Me: I guess she bled out.
Belle: [Uncontrollable laughter]
Me: [Uncontrollable laughter because of her uncontrollable laughter]

If keeping each other laughing is the key to a successful marriage, we'll be OK.

"Luck Be A Lady," Frank Sinatra: From "Sinatra at the Sands," it's one killer standard after another backed by Count Basie and His Orchestra. Whether singing or telling jokes on the album, Sinatra sounds like a man in complete in control of the room. Every time I hear this song, I imagine Sinatra at the craps table, Mia Farrow on his arm and yelling "Eleven!" as the dice turn one last time.

The song also reminds me of a framed picture I had on our wall. I first saw it at my grandfather's, at which point I decided I would get one when I had my own place.

For lack of a better word, it's just a cool picture. What is the source of their laughter? (My theory: Someone farted.) Why are they all reacting in different directions? How much less cool would this be if they were not wearing tuxes? It's a great conversation starter and an interesting moment frozen in time.

Frank, Dean and Sammy have lived with me the last five years or so, the first few when I was a bachelor in a bachelor pad. When Belle and I moved in to our apartment, she graciously -- OK, begrudgingly -- allowed me to hang the photo in our living room.

Earlier this summer, as we started planning to buy a house, Belle told me there would be no place for The Rat Pack in our new home. Frankly, I was just glad she decided to take me to the new house, so I nodded in agreement.

I took the photo down from the wall the other week as we prepare to move and truly start our lives together. Like the men it features, the picture is now a symbol of a bygone era.

But the future still feels like nothing but rolls of 11.

Urine trouble

I was sitting on the beach in the Outer Banks earlier this summer when nature called. There was no Garçon de Piss in the vicinity, let alone a public bathroom.

Belle had to go, too, so I followed her into the water (keeping some distance, natch). She was out of the ocean in a few minutes. I remained in the waves.

And I tried.

And I tried.

After 10 minutes, I gave up.

I walked back to our beach chairs, defeated. Belle, my sister-in-law and her boyfriend looked at me with a mix of incredulity and empty bladders.

I like to think of myself as pretty good when it comes to urination: my autobiography could be titled "Wait for the Shake." Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll be in the bathroom for so long I fall asleep standing up. I have had no problems going No. 1 in the woods or on the side of the road if I absolutely had to. But I might be the only person who cannot pee in the ocean.

The irony, in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, is that I love the beach. Give me a beach chair and a couple magazines and I'm content for an entire day. Until I have to go to the bathroom, at which point I find the nearest restroom.

I think my issue is how ocean urination is basically peeing your pants. Perhaps I have some repressed memory of feeling embarrassed when I was a wee lad (ha!) who couldn't hold it in. Besides, aren't children taught to wait to use a bathroom and given positive reinforcement for doing so? Maybe, by peeing in the ocean, I would be setting a bad example for the next generation of beachgoers, like Fat Guy in Speedo or Guy Strumming Guitar But Not Actually Playing A Song. (Note to Guitar Guy: You playing a G chord over and over is not going to make bikini-clad groupies come out of nowhere but it will give me a headache.)
 
Yet on some level, I understand that I'm coming out of the ocean with a wet bathing suit no matter what, so I might as well just go. But I physically can't pull the trigger. The act of urinating on my clothing is a mental block I can't overcome. While in the ocean at the Outer Banks, the thought  of pretending I was in front of a urinal crossed my mind, followed by the thought of getting a citation for indecent exposure. 

Instead, I sat down in my beach chair and picked up my magazine. Then a funny thing happened -- my need to pee went away. I was able to enjoy the rest of the day on the beach.

Looking back on it now, I realize my ability to hold it in means I'm living in a golden age of bladder control. That is, when I was a baby, I had no control. Thirty years from now, I'll probably have to go on the hour, every hour. So I'm going to enjoy these years of a regular-sized prostate before it's too late.

And I'm also going to enjoy these years when I can still sprint, because that's exactly what I did when I got back to beach house to reach the bathroom.

A not-quite-good-enough Good Samaritan

I was late for my haircut appointment and fiddling with my iPod when I heard a noise above the din of my ear buds.

"Excuse me!"

It was a woman in a beat-up car, waving me over.

"My car died. Can you push me up the hill?"

It was a fairly steep incline that would require a good 20 feet of movement plus a slight turn to get her out of the way of traffic.

Now, I like to think I'm in pretty good shape, but I'm no Ivan Putski. Nevertheless, I went over and began pushing. No luck. I stepped back from the car when I heard another voice.

"Why don't you roll the car downhill to the side of the road?"

This driver at the stoplight made a good point. I let gravity do the work and got the car down the hill and to the side of the road. Thankfully, no cars were coming, but I was ready to channel my-inner-fifth-grade school safety patrol and halt traffic.

(Speaking of, I've noticed more and more police officers directing traffic at intersections where there are no accidents or problems. This ends up slowing down traffic because drivers have to be careful not to hit the officers. If only there were some sort of light system that signaled to drivers when it was time to move...)

Now we're on the side of the road and I'm definitely going to be late for my haircut. The woman thanks me and I'm about to go on my way.

"I dropped my phone in the sink the other week and it hasn't been working. Can I use yours?"

I wanted to do a quick scan of my surroundings to get as good a look at my kidnappers as possible, figuring this had to be a setup. But I gave her my phone and waited.

And waited. And waited.

I thought about all of what appeared to be trash in her car and wondered if she were one of those people who says, "It looks messy but I know where everything is."

I thought about the sales people who, when they want you to sign something, ask for your autograph. It's flattering when you're 12 and for a split-second when you're an adult, until you realize this person would have the worst autograph collection ever.

I thought about Bachman-Turner Overdrive. "Let it ride" or "let it roll?" Let's pick a directive and stick with it, BTO.

I thought about the people walking behind me. We were stopped directly across the street from a hospital entrance. A frail-looking, elderly woman with toothpicks for legs was slowly shuffling toward the hospital, left hand on the brick building for support. Wouldn't it be something if she asked me...

"Excuse me," she said.

You've got to be kidding, I thought.

"Can you help me across the street?"

I stammered something about how I was already earning my Good Samaritan badge with the woman in the broken-down car.

I'm not sure she bought it; fortunately, someone else came along to help the patient to the hospital.

The tow truck had been arranged finally and was on its way. The woman thanked me profusely for helping her. I wished her the best and called to say I would be late for my haircut.

The lesson in all of this, I think, is that just when you think you've seen everything life, you realize you ain't seen nothing yet.