Old Man Robby

I’m old.

I know I didn’t believe it myself, but the signs are all there.  They just didn’t line up in my head until today.

“Old man crossing.”

Gah!  I was young yesterday, at least until talking with my wife. A task I’ve heard has aged many men.  That would be talking to wives in general, not specifically my wife. I mean, yes, many men have spoken to my wife—that’s not to say—Never mind, I’m old, apparently the mind is the first thing to go.

Fashion sense too.  Not that I ever had any, but my wife has noted a recent decline in my abilities.

“My fashion sense is tingling.”

“No, that’s the corduroy fire between your legs, honey. Next time they should fit looser. ”

It’s getting to where all clothing I wear in public needs written approval, or it needs to stay home.  It’s almost like I’m regressing, not getting older.  I haven’t needed this kind of supervision since I was six and tried to wear my Superman Underoos outside my jeans.

“Put Superman back on the inside, Robby. The world is dangerous, and you must keep your true identity hidden at all times.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Now My Queen is my wardrobe supervisor and she’s here to make sure there are no malfunctions.

“So what are you wearing to the wellness test tomorrow morning?” She asked me this on the phone last night. Probably to eliminate half my wardrobe before we got to the fashion show later.

I didn’t see why it mattered. The wellness test is just a series of basic health hoops our insurance company makes us jump through to make sure they don’t need to pay for anything later. What I wear won’t change how I perform.  It’s physical wellness, not bedroom prowess.

“I’ll wear a button down shirt and some jeans.”

“What about shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes I’ll wear them.”

“No! Which ones?”

“Tennis shoes.”

“Ughh.” If there is a universal sound of disgust, this is it. “Ughh.” She repeats. She’s really disgusted.

“What?” I ask.

“Tennis shoes make you look old.”

And there begins the downfall of Rob. I always thought tennis shoes were youngish in a “Dare to be comfortable kind of way.” My Queen says no. It says, “ old as in I’m too cranky to wear anything else. And get off my lawn.”

Now I’m confused.  I thought I was young. Then again this is just one thing.  Maybe I’m overreacting. While waiting for the Pirate Queen to come home, I check the news.  I read about a guy in England who died going Gangnam style. He was about my age. He wanted to show his kids how cool he was, so he busted a Gangnam, which in turn busted his heart. Dad danced himself to death.

Now I’ve never done that.  Oh, it may look like I’m having a seizure, but every Rob dance move is quite controlled. Still, I did have to wonder. If a little Gangnam killed that man, what would it do to me? I get winded grabbing a beer from the fridge.

As I’m sweating my Gangnam age, my wife bursts in the door.

“Why didn’t you answer the door?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been knocking for the past ten minutes!”

“Uh..I didn’t hear you…”

Holy Crap! It’s true! I’m getting old!

Now I’m on full age alert. I will beat this old thing. I mean knowing it is half the battle, right? From there, it’s a matter of regression.

Today I took my first step in fighting my age: I went to the wellness test to see what they said. I took my second step too: I wore my Superman Underoos on the outside. It worked too! My Queen didn’t accuse me of being old at all.