Recently, I have been experiencing Ocular Migraines, mostly likely due to a couple of weeks of intense stress, culminating in being called up to appear on a nationally syndicated talk radio show with just a few hours advance notice...
I love my publicist — I really do — but she knows I hate having suprises sprung on me, and yet she persists in doing so. And we sadly live in a (financial) era in which when the Big Dogs say "Jump!" we show up and ask "how high?" because we have bills, and groceries and $6.00 gas to buy.
Regardless, these sudden visually disturbing Ocular Migraines are very new development on my "WTF is this now?" spreadsheet for my medical team.
Yeah, I've had two incidents of the kaleidoscopic crapulence in the last 72 hours. My blood pressure is definitely a bit wonky, especially when I encounter sudden stress.
After posting that I really just wanted to stay home and be left alone, someone (a much YOUNGER someone) took it upon themselves to comment that I "used to deal with this kind of stuff all the time, taking it in stride and when did I get so old and boring" just made me want to shake my head, get a little bit annoyed and then pen a ranty screed in response (partly inspired by similar rants I have come across, over the years):
I need to make this very public announcement on behalf of younger Gen-X'ers and older Millennials:
If you come across someone in their late 40's to 60's who strike you as "a little boring" now, I need for you to understand something:
We've already been through it. We got it in.
Like...GOT. IT. IN.
We are not sitting at home on a Friday night because we never knew how to have fun.
We are sitting home on a Friday night because we have seen enough; been through enough; tried enough.
We went to three-day parties in houses that should have been condemned and were almost certainly owned by the local drug dealer.
We heard sirens and saw police cruiser lights and ran... and not across a nice, flat field. We ran INTO THE DEEP WOODS.
You have zero understanding of the athleticism required to hurdle uprooted tree roots and rotten stumps in platform shoes while simultaneously trying to keep your low-rise jeans from sliding completely off your ass.
And somehow...we never spilled the Zima. We never spilled the Boone’s Farm. We never spilled the Mogen David.
That was talent.
We slept on floors in strange houses because the designated driver either never showed up or — in a shocking turn of events — was actually drunker than everybody else.
There was no Uber, Life360 or Find My Friends.
There was just somebody named Mike saying, “I know a shortcut.”
And we followed Mike.
We closed down bars and then decided the night was still young, so we drove to the nearest huge city, where we somehow managed to get drunk, sober up, get drunk again, sober up again and then get drunk a thirds time before breakfast at a 24-hour pancake house that featured a Twinkie that had been nailed to the wall for at least 20 years.
And according to our parents? We were at Michelle’s house.
Eating pizza and watching movies.
Michelle’s mother unknowingly covered for approximately 17 people every weekend. If there even was a Michelle.
We drank things called Purple Passion, Mad Dog 20/20 and whatever somebody mixed inside a giant plastic Tupperware container, and nobody asked what was in it although Everclear and perhaps pure distilled Ethanol created by chemistry graduate students featured heavily.
You just grabbed a red Solo cup and trusted the process.
We went to clubs until the lights came on. Do you know the psychological damage of seeing a nightclub with the LIGHTS ON? Nothing good happens after those lights come on.
But we danced for four straight hours in shoes that permanently altered the structure of our feet, while drinking Slippery Nipples, Screaming Orgasms and Sex on the Beach.
We made entire plans for seven days of Spring Break without cell phones... no texts, dropped pins or group chats...just an extremely questionable sense of direction.
We rode in cars with 11 people when the vehicle legally seated five. Someone was always sitting on someone. Someone was always in the hatchback and someone possibly on the floorboards laying down. If you had a big enough land yacht, a couple of people went in the trunk.
And there was always one friend yelling, “DUCK!” whenever we passed a cop.
So yes...now we like being home and "boring."
We like sweatpants.
We like cancelling plans.
We like saying “That sounds like fun!” with absolutely no intention of attending.
We like getting to restaurants at 5:30 because we can get a good table.
We like being home by 8:30.
And if someone texts at 9:30PM and asks “What are you doing?”
Sleeping... or watching the latest documentary about the amazing world we created for you. Or sleeping while watching that documentary.
Bottom line: this is not boring my friends...this is retirement.
We like it, this way.
We already played, partied and danced on the bar at 3:00am.
We already ran from the cops through a wooded area dressed like a Stevie Nicks or Prince.
We have stories that cannot be posted because there are still people with careers, marriages and reputations to protect. And thank GOD there were no camera phones or Flock cameras.
So kids, when you look at your Gen-X and older Millennial parents sitting peacefully on the couch watching the History Channel at 8:00PM and think: “God, you guys are sooo boring...”
Sweetheart...oh sweetheart.
You are looking at retired legends.
Put some respect on our names.
We're probably the reason Life360 was invented.
With love,
The most boring 61-year old.
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