Old Man and the Son

I can never get my oldest son, who is now 17, to admit that I am in fact, cool. Supposedly I’m out of touch, old-fashioned, over the hill, and worthy of being referred to as “old man.” He texted me recently to let me know he was in for the night at his friend’s house. After my reply text reminded him that I loved him, he signed off that night with- “Love you, too, old man.” (At least he’ll still admit he loves me, especially when he needs money.) A few months back I made a decision to allow him to cut my hair. He got a little carried away and even became worried at one point that I was going to assault him once I was able to see myself in the mirror. “I trust you, boy,” I assured him, “And I did ask you to cut it short.” When I was afforded a look in the mirror a few minutes later, I became aware of two things: 1) My son is not a barber and 2) I am officially old. The grown child reminded me of my thinning topside a few moments later as I chased him around the yard. By the way, I can still outrun him. Not long ago this same kid of mine completely put me in my place in front of a group of folks I highly respect and who, up until that point, respected me. The boy looked handsome in his getup that night so I publicly commented to him that he should appreciate coming from such good genes. Without hesitation, he snapped, “Yeah, thanks for the genes. I’m really looking forward to being short and bald someday.” Ouch. And so it continues. He’s constantly trying to remind me how old I am and I’m attempting just as fervently to convince him I am still cool (assuming I ever was in the first place) and that I have more hair on my head than most men my age. Yes, my back is stiff in the mornings when I wake up. And I have to take six different kinds of pills each day for cholesterol, reflux, and healthy heart maintenance. But by golly, I’m still young in my own eyes and this kid was due a hands-on lesson to demonstrate that fact. Quite by accident, a hands-on lesson indeed occurred recently. The son and I were riding along in my truck and he asked if he could pop in a Jimmy Buffett CD. “Of course,” I replied, hardly able to contain myself. Before you start sending me mean emails, the Buffett song we listened to was mellow and thought-provoking, not raunchy and disrespectful like a small portion of his older stuff. The boy was amazed when I knew every word to the song. And I flaunted that fact by singing at the top of my lungs while he listened in stunned amazement. Eventually he joined in and a chorus of manly howling ensued. I care not if it was ear pleasing because it was certainly generationally uniting. When the song ended, I asked if he would be willing to hit the replay button and do it all over again. Obviously impressed, the kid reached for the controls and said, “Sure thing, old man.”