Please! Someone Decide How Old Is Old And Stick With It.

While I suspect most will not recognize the name, Kerry Collins, a better than average NFL quarterback, announced his retirement today after what one writer characterized as a “long and storied” career.  Another referred to Mr. Collins as “nearly ancient”.  Kerry Collins is retiring after 16 years of professional football at the age of 38.  Apparently, “old” in professional football is 38.
MSN recently published an article on its web site about the retirement of Command Sergeant Major Jeff Mellinger, the last Viet Nam era veteran who was drafted in 1972 at the age of 19.  On the other hand, two of my high school friends joined the service at 17 and retired after 20 years.    So, “old” in the United States Army is a moving target somewhere between 37 and 58.   
Because my very next birthday starts with a five and ends with a zero, the single least exclusive fraternity on earth, the AARP, recently invited me to join their membership.  In an effort to seal the deal, they enclosed a “complimentary” copy of their recent publication.  Apparently, now that I am nearly 50, laxatives, health insurance and vacation planning are of vital importance.  Despite their kindness, I did not feel “complimented”. “Old” as determined by the American Association of Retired Persons is 50.
With apologies to Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Brutus, Marcus Antonius and every person who attempted to teach me grammar, in perhaps “the most unkindest cut of all” Kroger offers a senior citizen discount to those 55 and older every Thursday.  Apparently our food retailer thinks we are old at 55.   
I am of sufficiently advanced years (my next birthday starts with a “5”) that roughly once a year I receive an update from the folks at the Social Security administration explaining my anticipated benefits should I live to retirement age (in light of my most recent physical examination, I can assure you this is purely an academic exercise on their part).  Wife 2.0, who is nearly five years my senior, receives similar notices.  Because I was feeling particularly decrepit, I recently examined the two notices and discovered a remarkable discrepancy.  According to the folks at Social Security, Wife 2.0 may retire at 67 while I must wait until 72.  Upon further investigation, I learned that Social Security retirement age, which for seven decades had been either 62 (“early retirement”) or 65 (“regular retirement”) is no longer a fixed number.  Rather, the younger one is, the older one must be to retire.   Applying the ratio differential from wife 2.0 to me, then on to son 1.0, I have discerned that he will retire at 143.      So, according to the Social Security Administration, Wife 2.0 is “old” at 67, I am “old” at 72 and son 1.0 will NEVER be old.
Of course, for me, retirement in any form is purely an academic exercise, a cruel hoax perpetrated by the AARP, the SSA or one of the other alphabet agencies whose advertisements feature retirees windsurfing or opening vineyards.  I am 50 (not really; but dangerously close ).  I have an 18 year old child (Son 1.0) who if history is to be believed, will manage to cram four years of college education into six years of lackluster attendance which will be closely followed by two years of graduate school in his personal quest to emulate Peter Pan (you know, the boy who never grew up).  Consequently, in eight years I can devote my resources to retirement rather than Son 1.0’s higher education.  Given that the experts tell us it takes 30 years to reasonably fund  retirement, I will finally be “old” enough to retire at 88. 

 So, I’m not sure how old is old, just that according to my sources, it is somewhere between 37 and 88.  I am, however, sure I will never, ever, be old.

See you next time. 

There Is A Reason Married Men Don’t Help Around The House and Yes, It Is Our Time To Declare Independence From The Tyranny of Others Directing Our Laundry.

Following just short of 30 years of marriage (yes, you have to add them all up), I’ve learned a few things (Wife 2.0 would say darn few).  Among the few things I’ve learned is that while wives say they want husbands to fold clothes, mow the yard, etc., what they really want is the opportunity to tell husbands they are performing the task incorrectly.  While the older, more accepted version may be “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, the modern equivalent is”Passive aggressive behavior hath no firmer adherent than the modern wife.” 

Wife 2.0 has a very precise way of folding everything, towels, shirts, shorts, foundation garments, you know, everything.  Likewise, she sees no humor in my considered opinion it matters not how one folds one’s underwear only that one actually wear the underwear and then only if one anticipates participating in a subsequent automobile accident.    But, back to the issue at hand;  I would  suppose it doesn’t matter that the towel is  folded along it’s longitudinal axis times three rather than first along it’s horizontal axis, also times three.  For, should you fold along the horizontal axis (times three) first; the towels end up slightly square rather than slightly rectangular.  They work as well at drying one’s bum under either sequence, horizontal or longitudinal.  Likewise, given that they are used in the shower just off the master bed room, absolutely no one on planet earth other than Wife 2.0 and I will ever see them. But, by gosh, right is right and I mistakenly folded an entire load of towels horizontally rather than longitudinally and was then required to sit through an excruciating remedial session of “longitudinal then horizontal” folding for idiots and married men.    I try to be a good sport; but when Wife 2.0 dumped a load of my already folded underwear for the crime of improper folding, after all, they were my tighty whitys and as referenced above, are worn each and every single day without regard to my auto accident plans.  So, given the relatively low numbers in the entire population of my undershorts, I was confident to a moral certainty that even the wrongly folded undershorts would remain in the wrongly folded condition no longer than 48 hours.      However, much like John Hancock, Paul Revere, George Washington and the many other patriot founding fathers, it was timesto tell King Henry (Wife 2.0) that the tea was going in the harbor, and taxation without representation was at an end.  Or, in my case I would fold my tighty whitey undershorts in any manner I saw fit.  The same would hold true for my towels, my side of the bed and the direction I hang clean shirts (one should be looking at the left sleeve rather than the right sleeve as the shirts rest on the hanger.)

At the end of the day, I suspect Wife 2.0 doesn’t care how I do laundry.  She just wants to me do it in any fashion so that she can assure me it was wrong.  It appears that at long last, I found my role in this marriage; I am the whetstone on which she sharpens her sword, her intellect and her truly evil sense of humor.  I think next week I will mow the yard wrong and let her spend a great deal of time showing me the “right way” to cut grass.  After all, I am a visual learner, not one to follow verbal direction.  Oh well. See you next time.