The other day I was sitting in an Irish bar, waiting for a friend. I wasn’t at all surprised that my buddy was running twenty minutes late. On the phone he’d said “Before I drop down to Murphy’s, I need to help my neighbor fix his garage door. It’ll just take a minute.”
Being a guy, I know that home repair isn’t like sex – it never “just takes a minute.”
At the next table over sat three guys. One was probably in his mid-eighties. He had grey/black hair jutting out in all directions and wore those big round glasses that were popular in the 1990’s. Stooped forward with a glass of clear liquid that I hoped was water, he was probably six inches shorter than the two younger men with him. My guess was that they were his sons.
Two guys sitting in front of us on stools at the bar stood up. One was getting ready to leave, so they hugged each other. A few seconds into the embrace the old guy near me sat more upright and shouted “Just take him home with ya, for Chirst’s sake!”
His Irish accent was super-thick, suggesting that the men with him might actually be interpreters.
A few minutes later a guy walked through the front door. He was wearing a grimy do-rag and had a grey ponytail cinched with a rubber band.
The ponytail guy looked at the bartender.
“He left a few minutes ago,” the bartender replied.
“But I just texted him!”
The old guy near me laughed and yelled “You hippies don’t know how to text!” He sat there with a little cherubic grin, enjoying his one-person show. He knew The Secret – old people are never threatening, so they can let loose and have a little fun. And since everyone expects them to be quiet and cordial, the opportunities for contrarian self-entertainment are vast.
The people who dread getting old are the ones who don’t know how much fun it can be.
My friend walked through the door. He strolled up to my table and said “You are not gonna believe this. Jesus. It was just one stupid spring.”