Growing Old

Crushed by karaoke, fake plastic bees, and my resistance towards resisting

Each week, a menu of sorts, around a revolving theme. This week: accepting the inevitable.

If you haven’t yet, please subscribe to Suppertime! I promise to feed you only once a week, and never after midnight.

Ingredient List

A list of things I enjoyed this week.

🎵 : “Family Ties” by Charles Wesley Godwin // I was lucky to interview him for The Drop podcast this past week (episode comes out next week), so I was listening to his latest album a lot beforehand. It’s some good old fashioned authentic country and my conversation him was one of the best I ever had with a guest, absolutely can’t wait for it to come out. He’s also on tour right now, so you should catch him if you can.

Since it’s election week, you can find me playing The Avett Brothers’ “Head Full of Doubt” over and over again.

📺 : Before I go to bed, I’ll try and catch up on some Detroiters, Tim Robinson’s unbelievably hilarious show that preceded I Think You Should Leave. It’s so good.

And now, onto dinner service.

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Course 1

A Word of Gratitude: Jell-O Shots

I touched on this a bit a couple weeks ago, but it was so shocking to me that I feel I need to dedicate this week’s introduction to it. Last month, we celebrated my wife’s birthday by going to Walt’s Inn, a Baltimore establishment that is known for its karaoke and its homemade Jell-O shots and cheap pounders of Natty Boh and PBR. 

Kimi loves karaoke, so she invited some friends and walked the half-mile to the bar where it was already fairly full, even at 9 p.m. After ordering our requisite two drinks, we put in our first songs for the evening and assumed our hour-long wait in the queue.

In the span of that hour, I aged a decade. 

Nevermind that most people there didn’t have grey hair, or young kids at home, or any responsibilities the next day outside of watching the Ravens at another bar across town. It wasn’t the fact that the karaoke required a QR code and a smartphone to sign up, or that the lyrics screen showed the next two songs that were going to be performed. All of that was abominable, but it wasn’t a blow to my ego. 

What really did it for me was that four different people, in the span of one hour, performed an Eminem song. From “My Name Is” to “Lose Yourself” to “Love The Way You Lie,” the entire career of Slim Shady was well represented. And in between all of that, there was Evanescence, Linkin Park, and even Rebecca Black’s iconic hit “Friday” (which was admittedly an absolutely amazing choice).

To me, karaoke exists in a vacuum of my twenties. Late nights spent in dive bars with cheap sound systems and paper slips with tips to get ahead in line. Playlists ranging from the B-52s to Weezer to TLC, but to perform a song from Y2K onward was virtually unheard of.

So at Walt’s, it almost seemed blasphemous to the spirit of karaoke to do songs that are so modern. I mean, Eminem’s hits were just on the radio… 25 years ago. Wait… 25 years ago!? And then it hit me. Those songs are classic rock; the time between the Slim Shady LP and now is the same timespan between The Beatles “Rubber Soul” and Nirvana’s “Nevermind.” A quarter century of culture has happened between then and now, and while the nineties are held in high regard by Gen Z, they are only used as a reference point for style cues or feigned nostalgia. The deep appreciation and emotional attachment isn’t there, which was confirmed when my wife did an immaculate rendition of Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” and the crowd seem entirely disinterested. 

So yes, I’m old. We’re old. 

But at least we remember the feeling of driving with our windows down, of hiding CDs with parental advisories, of lifting lighters up at concerts, of handing a piece of paper to the karaoke DJ and singing Journey with all our hearts.

And for that, I am grateful.

Course 2

Appetizer: Beeswax & Botox

There are many things I don’t understand in life. For example, if I live in an area that is not prone to drought, how can I waste water? Is it not a renewable resource? I could probably find this answer on Reddit, but I prefer to leave it a mystery, mostly so I can remain guilt-free during my long showers after a cold morning run.

But one thing I don’t understand and can’t google is this: extreme plastic surgery.

Every once in awhile, I’ll see a photo of somebody who looks like they may have made a mistake somewhere. A filament pulled that, once unraveled, turned into a nest of fishing line that not even a crab picker’s fingertips could untangle. Perhaps it began with a bit of collagen, or a simple facelift. And then, the addiction took hold. I imagine it’s much like getting tattoos. One day you’re a person who spent six months designing a family tree for their first ink piece; a year later you’re walking into a strip mall parlor on a Tuesday afternoon, asking for a pizza-eating rat smack dab in the middle of your thigh. 

What is this fountain-of-youth mind virus that takes hold of celebrities, that will coax them down a road of facial transformation, of which– once started– there seems to be no return to normalcy?

You know the people I’m talking about. The socialites or actresses or news anchors whose eyebrows don’t move, stubbornly refusing to give up their seat to any emotion, really taking the ‘eyes’ out of surprise. Or the lips that look like the first-born child of Lana Del Rey and the Joker, specifically the one in Alan Moore’s “The Killing Joke.” Or, just Lana Del Rey lips in general. Then there’s the noses. Michael Jackson tried to warn them, and yet– like treasure hunters looking for the cursed riches of Blackbeard, there’s an insistence to return to the scene of the crime, to think that they’re the one who will crack the code. From beak to chic to freak over the course of several sculptings.

Finally, the breasts. Yeah, okay, that’s a win for the home team. No notes.

It’s odd to me that the same people who are worried about microplastics in the water supply (which is endless, by the way) have no issues with macroplastics in their actual face. Injections after injections, cuts and tucks and endless retouches. Like a kid who can’t stop picking at a scab, resulting in a lifelong scar. Or, in this case– a face that looks like a beekeeper’s worst day on the job.

Maybe they don’t believe in mirrors or reject them wholly, an entire underground Hollywood sect secretly converting to nunnery or a strict interpretation of Sunni Islam. Of course, the likely explanation for this Transylvanian transformation is that they’re seeking immortality, and doing it from inside a bubble that is detached from actual reality. Certainly most of them have a body dysmorphia disorder, the pursuit of youth blinding them to the downward descent of their own visage, the irony that each alteration serves to age them even more. 

It’s borderline criminal and over-the-line unethical that a cosmetic surgeon will still take them in for another round of injections, moonlighting as a makeup artist for the Saw horror franchise. “Just one more Jigsaw for the road,” I imagine him saying as he works on them in the basement of his mansion, patients bathed in the glow of fluorescent light.

Really, when I look at them, I just feel sadness.

I want to reach out to them before all this happened, to sit across from them over lunch as any number of their friends should have done, and have a frank conversation with them. To look at their face, which is likely already beautiful– and tell them it’s gonna be fine. 

Listen, you are going to grow old and look older, but you deserve to wear your story proudly. At the risk of sounding like a Brandi Carlile song, I need you to know this: that the crow’s feet around your eyes are from so many happy moments shared with friends and family, the wrinkles in the forehead are all the problems you worked through and got over, the sagging skin is from the salt and the wind and the rain that comes from sailing around the world in a watercraft built by your own two hands. 

All of that tells a story, so let it be beautiful and let it be yours.

Course 3

The Main: You Are Now Entering Margaritaville

The best part about growing older is the slow onset of comfort. So much of being young is resisting– first it’s your parents, then it’s your professors, then it’s the government. Some feel the need to resist so much that they’ll actually put a bumper sticker on their minivan, just so others on I-95 will know they’re putting up a fight from where they sit, in the climate controlled driver’s seat– in this car, we believe that resharing resistance content on our phones while driving counts as doing the work. Others will film their fight against the man, just in case the FBI needs more evidence of them breaking into the United States Capitol. So much work for so little return.

Which is why eventually, we all slip into the folds of comfort.

I’ve noticed this more and more recently, at least in my own life. It begins with getting dressed. As an elder emo whose scarred soul flourished in the era of four chords on an acoustic guitar, my heart is in Ohio and New Jersey and everywhere else I played on stage while wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a skin tight American Apparel tee. I spent most of my twenties dressed that way, trying to find space for a pack of cigarettes anywhere on my body, all the while bemoaning my lack of a long torso that renders me unable to show off a belt buckle (my friend CK once pointed out my stunted torso status and I have yet to recover from it).

Looser fitting clothing is firmly back at the forefront of fashion, and the current trend for more space around our skin couldn’t come at a better time; since I turned 40, gravity has been pulling extra night shifts to expose my weaknesses, kneading the corners of my skin and also everywhere else, the dough rising with me before the dawn. Stuff that used to disappear with running now sticks around for breakfast and lunch and dinner and Oreos and, whenever I pass by the mirror in the hallway before bed, it lets me know that it’ll see me in the morning.

I realize now why my grandpa, for ages, wore baggy Wrangler jeans with work boots and a jean jacket or barn coat and tied it all together with a bucket hat, something that was distinctly his look and I have yet to see anyone really pull it off in the same way. I never quite understood it, much the same way I never understood why he got all his teeth pulled in his forties in exchange for a lifetime of dentures. But after letting the belt loose and going up just a bit in size in my own apparel over the last year or so, I finally realized: he was just relaxing, all the time. Even when working on the farm, even when mowing the lawn. From his teeth to his toes, he was living in comfort.

The quintessential sign of comfort, the crown jewel of relaxation royalty, is a pair of Nike Air Monarchs. Bleached like a whale bone in the sun with a small swoosh on the side, the Monarch is the grill shoe of choice for dads across America, an embodiment of the anti-resistance movement. Second to the Monarch is the New Balance 608, but the “cool” version of that shoe is the 990. A streetwear icon in places like Baltimore and Washington, D.C., the 990 also manages to be the perennial go-to footwear of middle-aged men everywhere. With a simple and clean design, a soft terry interior, and a comfortable FuelCell midsole, it’s a versatile shoe that can be worn to and for anything. That right there is the north star of comfort– a singular option, standing at attention just inside the front door, ready to report for duty for any assignment. I recently procured my own pair and I already know it’ll be my go-to uniform from now until I enter into my eternal sleep.

Comfortable clothing is one thing, but the true comfort comes from letting go of everything. This is a hard beast to tame, a difficult skill to master, and one that few people can do. We’re hardwired to resist the passage of time, the inevitably of death, the absolute reality that we gotta make our move to make our mark, and we need more youthful vigor to get there.

Everything in our culture tells us to be youthful in all things all the time, to look young by any means necessary, to resist the traditional course of starting and raising a family, to live in the now, to care about every little thing every politician says or does. This fretting over all things big and small, acting like it all matters– these are things that are meant for youth.

We’re meant to start letting go and yet we’re constantly being taught to resist the natural progression of life. 

It’s not an easy thing to do, for any of us. Because it requires giving up some of that control, admitting we are mortal, that we’re now rowing closer to the other shore.

For years, I fretted about my hairline, worrying that baldness would pop out of the bushes at any moment, and like a tree stricken with disease, my leaves would fall to the ground forevermore. As a kid, I was never able to grow out my hair past the top of my ears, an absolute agony for any teenager obsessed with skateboarding in the throes of the grunge era. Once emancipated, I moved to my long hair era which would come and go. Right before I had my first kid at the age of 34, I gave it one last hurrah; by that time, my hairline was actually moving in reverse so I knew that was my last chance to go long. Since then, the follicles have slowly moved to the rear of the bus, complicating my lettuce styling skills which usually results in just another hat day. But hats are comfortable. And I’m okay with it.

It’s hard to see the best physical version of yourself weaken and degrade and turn into– *waves hands around*– whatever this is, because you intimately know how you used to be, and that version was really pretty great. You know this because your iPhone memories insist on showing you, and it all still feels so close. It really does feel like yesterday. So I get why people poke and prod and cold plunge and cryo and inject and modify, engaging in an all-out war against weak and aging cells that are somehow strong in all the wrong ways. But this isn’t Star Wars and you’re not Han Solo lying on the beaches of Tatooine in a bath of carbonite; resistance is indeed futile.

I want to embrace old age, or even middle age, and I’m not fully there, but I’m getting there. Most of that is probably thanks to my dad era. There’s a reason why dad stereotypes exist and it’s because they’re all true. My attention to my family is no match for a historical marker at a rest stop. I frequently send bird photos to another dad friend of mine (I saw an American Woodcock and a Cooper’s Hawk last weekend and it was thrilling). I’m in the process of putting my toes in the water of the Jimmy Buffett catalog (Biloxi is my favorite right now). If Chris Carrabba were rewriting his Dashboard Confessional catalog for us today, he’d sing that “grey hair is everywhere.” And so it is with me. That’s fine.

When you’re young, you don’t understand how someone can get to the end of their life and say “I’m ready.” But with every passing year, it starts to make sense. The constant pursuit of all things, the endless worrying, the resistance against time– it’s all so tiring. What could be more comfortable than sleeping for all of time, never again having to endure the latest TikTok trend, worrying about hair sprouting in ear canals, dressing to impress, or working to prove that you’re valuable to someone who is using you as a means to their own end?

Imagine floating in the dark, so far away, with nothing to resist– nobody calling your name, no mirrors to point out the flaws in your skeletal remains, no gravity to pull your bones back down to earth. Just you, spirited away in a pair of sweats and comfortable socks, bouncing gently off the remnants of the stars.

Course 4

Dessert: A Repast of the Past Week

Finally wrapped up the fall marathon season with one last work trip to New York City, where I didn’t run the marathon, but I did cheer on the runners, including plenty of my friends and a couple of my co-workers. My family was also able to come on this trip, so that was nice. Between the work activities, we were able to go to Central Park and the Heckscher Playground on Friday, which is truly one of the most magical places on earth. Surrounded by large boulders, the skyline of New York, and Central Park itself, the playground teems with kids of all ages and backgrounds, like a Sesame Street dream scenario come to life in all its fullness. I know the time will come when my kids no longer care, but I’m so glad that we still go there whenever we’re in New York City. This time, they jumped in on a pick-up game of soccer and played with other kids from all over the world for a couple hours. Just an incredible place.

Of course, Central Park in itself is a true gem, and we went back again on Saturday and visited the zoo with some friends. It’s small, but it packs a punch with some good wildlife and is a good way to pass an hour or two.

Sunday was the New York City Marathon, of course, as 55,000 runners ran through all five boroughs. The weather was fantastic for racing, but a bit chilly for spectating, as my kids can attest to. We screamed our heads off at mile 24 for a solid hour before having to recharge the batteries, but it was awesome seeing so many incredible people out there and giving them support along the way.

Teaching resilience

Took the train back to Baltimore today where we’re getting back to normal, right in time for the chaos of Election Day.

Whoever you vote for, just remember one of my favorite lines from The Avett Brothers’ “Head Full of Doubt”:

When nothing is owed or deserved or expected
And your life doesn't change by the man that's elected
If you're loved by someone, you're never rejected
Decide what to be and go be it

I also contribute to The Drop, a weekly email from Believe in the Run, where I round up running news and stories in a generally sarcastic (and sometimes heartfelt) manner. You can subscribe here.

I’m also the co-host of The Drop running podcast, one of the top running podcasts in the country, where we mostly talk about things other than running that thousands of people seem to find entertaining. You can listen to this past week’s episode here, where I talk way too much about Legos.

I also had a great chat with some professional musicians (one is Katy Perry’s bass player and another is on The Voice right now) who are also runners and all-around great guys. They have a documentary out now that talks about their journey to run the Pinhoti 100 Miler, all while juggling family and career responsibilities. You can listen to that one here.

END OF MENU

Thank you for dining with me this evening, I hope the service was acceptable. Tips (whether monetary or recommendations to others) are appreciated, but not expected.

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