Don’t get me wrong: my parents are nice people. They are, however, white. And as I’ve previously established, white people are not always the most fun to be around. Last night, I went to dinner with a bunch of my mother’s colleagues. Dinner was delicious, and the conversation was pleasant. Too pleasant. Have you ever been in a room full of aging, middle-class white people? It’s more boring than watching golf (which, incidentally, some of these people probably played.) In fairness, I should mention that there were two people of color at this event. But even they were pretty white. I don’t want to come down too hard on them. Perhaps if I got to know these people, I’d realize how interesting they are. But I doubt it. Sometimes you really can just look at someone and know that their life story would bore you to tears. You might be protesting that I might turn out like them someday. I don’t think I will.
Growing old gracefully is, like many things, largely about attitude. Some people lose their looks and some people stop caring how they look, but one thing that doesn’t change is how cool you are. Coolness is not defined by how up-to-date you are on the latest pop culture. If that were true, bloggers would be cool, and blogging is just about the least cool thing there is. No, it’s more like being funny like being sexy. The harder you try, the less you are. And I, no matter what anyone else says, am cool, funny, and sexy. Suck on that, bitches. What’s more, I’ll still be all of those things when I’m 70. Why? Because I want to be, and I don’t waste all of my time trying to pass myself off as something that I know deep down that I never can be. I don’t pretend to be serene or patient like everyone at that dinner seemed to be, so why should they pretend to be cool? To their credit, none of them did. They’re boring, and that’s exactly what they appear to like to be.
Cool, funny, and sexy are all superficial qualities, when you get right down to it. It’s entirely possible to be all of those things and still be loathsome. Am I loathsome? That’s for you to decide. One fellow who was three years below me in high school thanked me before I graduated for being a “role model”. I was shocked. All I did was sit next to him in choir practice and make sarcastic remarks all year. There’s no telling what you can do when you’re not thinking. People touch each other’s lives in all sorts of ways. My parents have touched my life by teaching me what I don’t want to become.
I’m not sure if I’ve properly conveyed yet how boring they are. Every time I talk to one of them, they tell me what movies they’ve seen lately and ask me how I’m doing. That’s it. I have a Jewish friend whose family members are, according to him, fond of disclosing details of their sex lives at gatherings. God, I wish I were Jewish. Not all Jewish families are like that, but I guarantee you that no Catholic families are like that. Catholicism is all about shame and guilt. Jews are the most oppressed group of people in history, so why shouldn’t they live it up a little bit more? My father is the kind of man who goes to work every morning and is greeted with, “Good morning, [father of Robot King]. How are the wife and kids?” Even though that doesn’t happen, it should.
I have a smutty mind. If any of my family members are reading this, stop. I don’t want to know that you have genitals, let alone sex lives. As far as I am concerned, a stork left my siblings and me on my parents’ doorstep back in the ‘80s and my mother and father just like living together. So I really don’t want you knowing anything at all about my sex life. Have you left the room now? Good. You can come back on the next post. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t have enough sex. I went to a gymnastics competition over the weekend, and all I could think was, “Woof.” There are times when I had difficulty following the event because one of the guys was changing off to the side. I have to stop talking about this now or I will become unable to finish this post.
Sex is a wonderful thing in that it makes fools of us all. No matter who you are, young or old, black or white, king, queen, or peasant, you look like an idiot when you’re getting off. What I’m trying to do with this article is not mock people who are different from me, not make generalizations about people I don’t know, but expose our common humanity. Even my parents probably have one or two sordid or outrageous stories in their past, though I am loath to admit it. Yet they seem to have put that behind them. Part of that might be a product of getting older, but not all of it. Some people stop trying after they hit a certain age. Some people realize that they weren’t that impressive to begin with. Is it worth the effort to keep up appearances? To me, it is, but that’s because I’m the sort of person for whom appearances are about a lot more than just image.