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“How come old men always wear
those white shoes?” My nephew’s question was directed at me, but his gaze was
clearly fixed on my new florescent white Reeboks.
At 44 I don’t consider myself
particularly ancient, even if some fresh inconvenience of the years does pop up
every month or so. But age is relative, and this particular relative is a mere
15. The jibe was mainly a continuation of the verbal jousts we have long
enjoyed, though the kid truly is gripped by a fixation with brand name shoes
that seems common in boys his age.
My answer was a variation on a
theme my own son has endured many times: When one matures, one often finds that
there is more to life than $100 sneakers. What I look for in tennies is
“comfortable” and “cheap.” Since cool guys don’t go for bright ivory, the
iridescent whites tend to go on sale first. I should probably have thanked him
on behalf of geezers everywhere for his part in keeping our prices down.
This would likely
be patent nonsense to his way of thinking. Old guys tend to babble a bit, so
sometimes it’s best just to let them peter out and toddle off.
That said, I feel
compelled to give credit where due, however grudgingly. Our little exchange
took place at my mother’s, where I had noticed a brand new gas-powered weed
eater on the front porch, still in the box. I assumed it was a new toy for my
step-father, but it turned out he had taken my nephew to town where the boy
bought it himself.
The new gadget
will join the mower, hedge trimmer, lawn blower, and other assorted equipment he
has acquired with a friend for what can only be described as a full-blown yard
care service. The two have developed a loyal clientele of homeowners in their
neighborhood over the past couple of years, acquiring some pretty professional
gear along the way. During the spring and summer they can net close to $1,000 a
month just working weekends. He buys his own sneakers.
This is in
addition to having graduated as valedictorian of his middle school last year,
continuing his father’s legacy as a talented athlete, and what my sister tells
me is about an hour a day in personal Bible study. He plans to become a doctor
and I have no doubt he can do it, but from what I’ve seen of his bedside manner
I plan to do my level best to steer him away from gerontology.
Growing up does
indeed change one’s outlook, but my pat reply might have hidden at least a touch
of hypocrisy. Maybe some of the attitudes we think of as marks of personal
growth are more a rationalization of the fact that the externals are getting
away from us. Along with perspective, time gives love handles, takes hair, and
adds lines of character that couldn’t possibly be wrinkles. So perhaps it’s
easier to chalk decreasing vanity up to maturity than to admit we have less
cause for it.
An old expression
goes “If I only knew then what I know now ... ,” but what if we instead had now
what we had then? How many of the old perspectives would snap back into place,
driving the price of pearly white tennis shoes even lower? I’m coming to think
that as we age we need to be vigilant for such false maturity, a façade of
wisdom that serves much the same purpose as vinyl siding, covering up the
consequences of time without much changing what’s below.
Age can bring real growth, of
course, and has other advantages as well. For instance, how many 15-year olds
have their own newspaper column to avenge personal insults? But it behooves us
to take stock from time to time, to consider how much of the tempering of the
years is genuine progress and how much is merely another coat of paint.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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