The Razor's Edge

I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about growing old. I don’t mean that in the “wow, it’s gonna suck getting old” sense, because I AM old (given my familial history, I should be having a ¾ life crisis right now). It could be that worrying about growing old is based on some sort of unfavorable internal comparison between your distant past and your present (or perceived future). I don’t think that’s the reason why I don’t worry too much, though, as my memory has long been shot to hell - I really have no past on which to base judgments. Maybe it’s just that I’m having a pretty good time right now and don’t have time to think about it.

That said, however, there are certain things associated with being younger that happen less and less as the years go by, and I must admit to appreciating them more and more when they do as time marches on. Getting carded for beer at 45 years of age should bring a smile to anyone’s face. Imagine my delight, then, when I was reprimanded at work today for my shoddy personal appearance!

That hasn’t happened in at least 10 years. I’m not counting the ever-present comment on my reviews that lists stores that sell combs (subtle!) … I’m talking about a “come in, close the door” discussion. The last time it happened had something to do with red Chuck Taylors not “projecting professionalism” to customers. (Yeah, whatever, boss … neither does your FAT ASS!) The current concern seemed to be spurred by facial hair and my lack of attention to its growth (I’m pretty sure I have a gender-based discrimination case here, if any lawyer types are looking for a project). In any case, I had coincidentally decided to shave this morning (and it was only about 3 or 4 days’ growth, fergawdsake), so at least I’m spared the appearance of having buckled under to the demands of The Man. (I do, however, now have an internal conflict between my work life (boss telling me to use a razor) and my personal life (friends and family not allowing me to have sharp objects). Maybe I’ll call EAP with that.)

You can bet your sweet bippy, though, that my next pair of Chucks will be red.

Above: Also persecuted for wearing facial hair, or something like that.