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Rock of Ages

America is obsessed with age. The anti-aging industry is alive and well, hawking herbs, hormones, plastic surgery, you name it. If Ponce de Leon were alive today, he wouldn't know where to begin.

Lately, all of this silliness over aging has been getting on my nerves, to the extent that I have been forced to deliver an impromptu rant or two. It has since been suggested by a few simple-minded acquaintances that this recent preoccupation might have something to do with the fact that I turned forty this week ð on Wednesday, November 1, to be exact.
v With all due respect, this unoriginal, simplistic and utterly baseless allegation is such drivel that I shall not dignify it with a response except to say that it exposes those who made it as opportunistic cheap-shot artists, jealous of my worldly success and youthful countenance. Yes, yes, I know, I pity them too.

Which is all not to say that I do not feel pretty old some of the time. I do. I just think it has more to do with being a parent than with turning forty. Despite daily exposure to over-cute stuffed animals, plastic replicas of musical instruments, and books like "Pat the Bunny," I am starting to hear the call of my inner curmudgeon.

One creepy development, and a sure sign of old age, is that I've fallen into the habit of licking my fingertip before turning the page of a book. Back when I was a kid, the only person who did that was the local librarian, a hunchbacked crone with bifocals on a rhinestone chain and a wadded-up lace hankie tucked up her sleeve.

I have also discovered, recently, that I harbor deep, yet unsubstantiated convictions about whether brushing teeth should occur before or after putting on jammies, and that it is no laughing matter when a child, having agreed to eat five more bites of dinner before dessert is served, attempts to qualify with four.

I complain more these days, about terrible restaurant service, about teenagers driving too fast in the neighborhood, and especially about sleep. I want more of it, while Emma seems to want less, making bedtime has been hot-button issue around here. Being both mildly lazy and sleep-deprived, I cannot fathom turning down an opportunity to sleep, let alone resisting violently. There is something brutally ironic about literally having to beg someone to go to sleep when I would gladly trade cash dollars for a short nap.

Emma struggles against bedtime, suspecting that Julia and I are staying up to wear party hats and eat cake and ice cream without her. She does not believe me when I swear to her that after she falls asleep, I am going to wash some clothes, or do some dishes, or balance the checkbook.

Her cooperation must be negotiated; if I am lucky, I can get away with reading her an extra book or three. I read slowly and deliberately, trying to calm her down with my tone of voice, and being very careful not to incur her wrath by skipping any pages.

No wonder I started licking my fingertips.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.