For nearly two decades, I’ve had two main life goals. So far, it isn’t going well. My first goal is to be a guest character on an episode of the Simpsons. While the show is still in production, my chances are looking slimmer and slimmer with each passing season. For crying out loud, Jonathan Franzen has been on the show…along with Thomas Wolfe…and Gore Vidal. Yeah, that last one hurts. Heck, Thomas Pynchon has made two separate appearances! Be honest, how many of you have actually ever finished a Pynchon novel? That’s what I thought! About the same number of you who have finished one of my novels. Granted, this is my personal email list…and it includes my mother. (Thanks for reading, Mom.)
Anywho, today’s main topic is my second life goal: to age gracefully into a loveable, yet grumpy old coot. What can I say, I aim big. I’ve always been ambitious. But along these lines, you’ll never believe what happened to me last Saturday. (Okay, who am I to cast doubt on your ability to believe or disbelieve? That was rude. I apologize.)
Anywho, as I was saying, this past Saturday as me and the family were chilling down at the local food bank, one of the younger volunteers piped up in what was surely a misdirected effort to encourage me. Smiling, he said straight to my face, “You know, I like working with you. You’re the nicest one.”
I quietly swallowed my devastating disillusionment and smiled back. “Hey thanks. You’re a blast to work with.” At this point, I wanted to be snarky—to shake my fist and say something about kids these days. But instead what came out was something like, “Your laughter makes the whole place brighter.”
Gag, right? How discouraging. Since that encounter I’ve been doubting the attainability of even a basic level of crotchetiness. I mean, what was I thinking? It seems pretty evident at this point I just don’t have the raw grump it takes to age into gnarled codger, much less a grumpy, old coot.
Try as I might, I just can’t get the hang of the grumpy part. I’ve come to the conclusion that it might be time for me to give up on my childish old-man ambitions and simply accept the fact that I’m destined to be an awkward, skinny Santa as an old man. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Sure, there’s not as much narrative gold or dramatic punch. Sure, I’ve had my heart set on grump for the past two decades. But I can grow a wiry, grey beard and wear a beanie in June. No problem.
Who knows, maybe I can do something with the whole reluctant tutor thing. You know, and take some awkward tween under my wing while he/she finds their own narrative voice and eventually writes the next great American novel…just to find out after my death that I left my own great novel unpublished and collecting dust under the floorboards of my writer shack. Maybe the posthumously published novel will be titled, “Good Night, Grumps.”
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