Stu's visit to Egypt (year 2)
02/23/2003
I was peering into the mirror just now, hunting for ripe zits, when a rogue strand of hair caught my attention. When I brushed it with my fingers I discovered its horrible origin. My jaw dropped and my face contorted into a silent scream. I was imagining that scene when the Alien burst from that guy's torso. I was starring at a single, long strand of hair growing from the interior of my ear.
Those that know me will say a lot of things about me, but it is unlikely that any of them will say I am a vain person. In fact, based on the constructive criticism I continually receive about my soiled wardrobe, shoddy hygiene, and inappropriate public displays of affection for quarter pound hot dogs I would say I'm the person people would name "the least likely person to be concerned about his looks." So trust me when I say that I am not whining about how this development will deteriorate my rugged good looks. No, I am whining because I am now of the age that I understand all of those Bill Cosby albums my Dad listened to when I was a kid.
Cosby was always commenting about his age and all of the physical trappings that go with the aging process. I saw my Dad laugh and I would laugh too, but only out of politeness. Sure, I thought the ice cream bit was funny and the chocolate cake for breakfast, but when he started in on his expanding waistline or graying hair or sputtering about not understanding teenagers I would take the opportunity to catch my breath. I truly didn't understand the relevance. But now I feel trapped in some bizarre time warp doomed to replay a trite comedy act. I have hair growing from all the wrong places. I make grandpa noises. I enjoy NPR. I would rather sit around a friend's living room than go out to the bars. I don't get "hip-hop." Or "rap."
Please don't forward those "You Know When You're Old When..." lists or those comparisons about what we were doing when today's high school graduates were born. I don't think they're cute or interesting or funny or helpful. Besides, I don't open "FW"s. Well, except for the aforementioned age-related emails, I guess. Apparently, I have seen those. Probably by accident. Or by some clever cutter-and-paster who thinks they're so smart for avoiding people's subject line radar. Computer genius' they are.
Maybe I'm exaggerating. I don't feel old. This hair thing just caught me by surprise, that's all. I'll do some extra crunches at the gym tomorrow. That'll make me feel viral and manly. Sorry if I alienated anyone. Some of you are undoubtedly shaking your head saying, "Get a grip Stu. Been there; done that." I take pride in the fact that my personal maturation has always been sufficiently stunted compared to my chronological age. Maybe it's my youthful exuberance. Maybe it's my positive outlook. Maybe it's my job as a teacher that keeps me in touch with prepubescent, unjaded optimism. Maybe. But, just to be safe, I'm getting rid of my bathroom mirror.