Category: Getting Older
It’s funny to look back at all the dumb things you’ve done and wonder how you got through it all, isn’t it?
Like that time you climbed onto the roof of your house and told your cousins you could fly. Or that time you climbed onto the roof of your school because you were messing around with a substitute teacher. Boy, you sure like to climb onto roofs, don’t you?
Or maybe that’s just me.
Allow me to posit a thought: the sum of all your experiences is you. I think I read that in a fortune cookie once. It’s true as blue though. All those dumb things you did, those things you wish you could erase, well, they’re you.
Like that time you saw that cute girl that you’ve had a crush on since, forever. You had a chance to talk to her, maybe spark up a funny conversation and get her number. But instead, you had a conversation with your beer. (Trust me; beer isn’t nearly as fun to kiss as a cute girl.)
Or the time you had a fight with a good friend over something really stupid, something you can’t even, for the life of you now, remember. And neither can the friend. But so much time has passed now that it’s too late to bridge the gap.
Now those experiences are a part of you. Those experiences, those dumb things, are called regrets. Those “Gosh Darn It Why Didn’t I Do Something Else Instead?” moments.
They’re not particularly bad things, you know… unless you dwell on them and let them eat you up inside. Then they’ll be bad things. Like termites hollowing out a log, those dumb things could render you an empty log too, if you let them.
So how do you turn regret into good things? Make them into lessons, into moments that teach you something new. That’s the other thought I’d like to posit. (Plus, I like the word posit. Posit posit posit.)
Life is essentially a series of lessons to be learned. We all make mistakes. They’re inevitable. Some tiny, some grand, all which you wish you could erase. But you can’t. And that’s the beauty of it. If you could erase a mistake, you would never gain that life lesson.
Like seeing the cute girl. Now you know to let go of your beer and talk to her. It’s better to try and get rejected, than to walk away and regret never having tried at all.
Or the friend you lost. Now you know to be more aware of friend’s feelings, or at least to try harder to keep the friendship than to let it lapse.
That’s a line I listen to a lot. It’s like a Golden Rule to me. It can be extrapolated too: it’s better to try and fail at something, than to walk away and regret never having tried at all. It’s a rule that can apply to all facets of life. Plus, I learned it after having done many dumb things.
It’s not easy to look at a painful mistake and try to draw a lesson from it though. It’s much easier to dwell on the mistake. Or try to forget it. Or say you earnestly try to find a lesson in your mistake; what if you don’t see one? Or draw the wrong lesson?
I didn’t say this was going to be easy. Sorry. Here’s what I do: analyze the mistake as objectively as I can, then consider the full range of alternate actions I could have taken. Since I can only control myself, it’s no use worrying about how other people could have behaved, so I focus on how I could have made the situation better.
At least, that’s what I strive to do. Cute girls, talk to them. Good friends, keep them. And if I don’t, take a lesson and be a better person from the inevitable dumb things that I’ll do.
Plus, stop climbing roofs so much. It was funny once, but it’s not funny anymore. See? A lesson learned! Or maybe that’s just me.
. . .
Do you ever look back at all the dumb things you’ve done?
That moment, that instant we’re born: are we good? Or are we evil?
Do we arrive into the world with a predisposition for good deeds, good thoughts, and good intentions? Or are we innately bad, inclined for evil acts, evil notions, and evil desires?
Me, I don’t think it’s either case. I think we’re born selfish, (though selfishness is generally considered an “evil” trait). Allow me to posit:
As a newborn baby, your first instincts are of survival. Breathing, sleeping, pooping, and eating. All those actions help you to survive.
Most of those you can do yourself. Except for eating. You’ll need a guardian of some kind to provide you with food.
So what do you do? You cry. Since you’re not a self-sustaining person yet, you need to depend on others. On a very basic level, this is a form of selfishness.
Your view of the world is also very self-centered. As an infant, you’re unaware of the full scope of the world around you. All you know is you and your needs.
This changes as you learn about the external world. Through social interactions, you become aware of distinct personalities outside yours. You learn that your actions have consequences on others.
You could be taught to tailor some of your actions to minimize their negative effects on others, as long as your needs are still being met. This is the root of selflessness.
If you’re not taught this, you’ll continue to operate in a self-centered view, without care for the consequences of your behavior. This is selfishness.
In this context, maturity can be defined as a healthy balance of selflessness and an understanding of the external world in relation to one’s needs and wants.
To continue this line of analysis, good and evil can be seen as subjective values that human civilizations create and internalize into their cultures as a way to ensure societal order. That’s why stealing is seen as evil by so many cultures; it’s essentially a selfish act. Without these values, or morals, there would be no society.
Selfishness itself isn’t evil. As a newborn, it’s absolutely necessary. As a trait, it’s just a primal act of survival. If negatively effects another person however, then most societies will judge this as evil.
And that’s my answer to whether we’re born good or evil: it’s neither, we are born selfish.
. . .
Do you think we’re born good or evil?
“Do people really live happily ever after?” asked the eleven year-old. He stared up at me with wide, eager eyes.
“Well…” I paused. I sucked in a breath. “That’s a big question.”
He continued to gaze at me, unwavering. I knew I had to give him an answer. It’s rare nowadays for the young to seek advice from their elders, so I couldn’t let him down.
I cleared my throat. “For many people, yes, they do live happily ever after. And if you believe enough in it, it will happen to you too.”
That’s too fairy-tale, I thought to myself. Need to give him some real world advice.
“Happiness is just a state of mind. There are people who will never be happy, no matter how much they have or how much they accomplish. For them, they never truly live happily ever after because their own minds are never satisfied. They are forever filled with an emptiness that leads them into a hollow, sad existence.”
His cheeks trembled. A frown formed. Oops, too pessimistic. Need to be more optimistic.
“Then there are people who are happy with what they have. They know how to appreciate the little things. You’ll see them on the streets, smiling and laughing and full of energy. They’ve had troubles in their lives too, but they know how to rebound from their troubles and enjoy the ups and downs of life.”
The frown subsided. His brow began to wrinkle and he raised an eyebrow. Damn, I’m losing him.
“You see, life isn’t always good. And it isn’t always bad. There are always ups and downs, good times and bad times. When you buy a new toy, that’s a good time. When you have to do your homework, that’s a bad time. Both are inevitable—”
He scratched his head.
“Do you know what inevitable means?”
He shook his head.
“It means something that is sure to happen. So you can’t escape doing your homework; you’ll have to do it. Everyone does. That doesn’t mean life is bad though. You’ll also get new toys, especially on your birthday and Christmas. That’s also something that is sure to happen.”
I paused. Too idealistic. Can’t paint him a picture that everyone gets presents.
“However, if you’re from a poor family, then you won’t always get new toys. Those families have to celebrate in other ways. Like… making their own presents out of dried macaroni or something…”
He wrinkled his brow. Getting off topic. Dang.
“So what I mean is, everyone has to deal with good times and bad times. It’s the people who know how to be happy with these good and bad times that will live happily ever after.”
He scratched his head again.
“Let me try it this way. The term ‘ever after’ is a pretty broad term. Some people find love and get married and have kids, and they’re happy. But it may not necessarily be ever after. They may be happy for many years and then go through a messy divorce with crazy custody battles over their kids.”
His jaw dropped and his eyes popped open.
“Oh, no no no, I don’t mean to say that your parents will get divorced! I’m sure they’re one of the couples who WILL live happily ever after. I’m just saying that not all couples do. But when a couple does, like your parents, then you all live happily ever after!”
He closed his mouth, but his brow was still wrinkled.
“Some marriages last a good long time. Until they die, which would be the logical end of ‘ever after,’ but that’s—”
His jaw dropped again. Dang!
“I mean, not die! Well, no, everyone has to die. But don’t focus on that right now! What I mean is, um, what I’m trying to say is that… uh…”
He scratched his head and shuffled his feet. “You don’t really know the answer, do you?”
“Huh? Why sure, I just told you the—”
“Nuh uh, you don’t really know.”
We stared at each other in silence. My toes itched. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
He broke the stalemate first. “Gee, I thought that when you get old, you get smarter and know things. But you don’t know anything. I hope that when I get old, I’ll know the answer.”
Then he shuffled away. I scratched my head and wrinkled my brow.
. . .
Do people really live happily ever after?
I want to be a grandfather who tells stories to his grandkids one day. Fantastic stories. Stories about how I fought off legions of rogue ninjas who swarmed the family mansion with just a rusty butter knife.
Or maybe something less violent. Like, hmm. Like how there was a roaring inferno in a school and I rushed in to save a group of trapped quadriplegic kindergarteners on the fifth floor.
Okay, I admit it: I have Hero syndrome. So maybe I should make the stories slightly more believable. Something my grandkids would believe I really did.
Then again, is fighting off killer ninjas and rescuing kindergarteners really that unbelievable?
Okay, dumb question.
The point is: I like weaving together and telling stories. Sometimes these stories are part fantasy and part reality. Taking a little creative license always helps to spice up a story. My life isn’t as exciting as a rock climber or international super agent, so I kind of have to.
They say that being able to look at an everyday situation and reframe it into a story is a bit of an art. It takes an observant eye and always-on memory.
For me, I have a fundamental belief that life is all a matter of perspective. We all look at life through different lenses. If your lens is blue, life for you is blue. If your lens is full of joy and energy, life for you is mostly full of joy and energy.
One of the lenses I often like to use is the Storyteller Lens. Every experience I go through has the ability to turn into a full-fledged story. Every experience, however, is not story-worthy. This lens allows me to discern which experiences will make a good story, and which won’t.
Or, at least, that’s what I hope it can do. My lens isn’t always accurate. And that’s what these Rambles are for. They’re storytelling practice. Within this large pile of coals, hopefully I’ll create a few gems that I’ll carry with me forever.
Which means that maybe I should write more stories about killer ninjas and raging infernos. Otherwise, all I’ll have for my grandkids are a bunch of stories about growing old and planning scavenger hunts.
. . .
What kind of grandparent do you want to be?
“My bones hurt.”
“They do not. Bones can’t feel pain.”
I looked at my fingers. “Must be my joints then. Arthritis.”
“You do not have arthritis,” Lisa argued.
“I think I heard my back crack this morning. I’ll probably have back pains for the rest of my life.”
“Backs crack all the time. It’s natural.”
“Not like this. It sounded like someone slamming a sledgehammer into a tree.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “Then wouldn’t that be more of a thud sound, instead of a crack?”
I paused. “Ohmigosh, you’re absolutely right! See, my mind is going! I must be going senile!”
“Mike, you just turned thirty. Not a hundred. Thirty. You’re still a young man.”
“You just think so. From the outside, everything looks okay. But inside, just think—all of these organs have been pumping away for thirty whole years. Never a day’s rest. My iPod can’t even survive two years without breaking down.”
“You’re comparing your internal organs to your iPod?” Lisa gave me the kind of look someone gives a puppy who just collapsed out of dizziness because he couldn’t catch his own tail.
“What about this: what if I were to walk outside, get hit by a bus, fall on a dirty soup spoon, and, you know, get AIDS?”
“Hey, I know that reference. You got that from Calvin & Hobbes, right?”
“You’re not listening to me!” I shook my fists at the Heavens. “I’m OLD!”
Lisa sighed. She patted my shoulder solemnly. “Want me to get your walker for you? I’ll make sure to pick up a box of Depends later today too.”
I shook my head. “It’s over. It’s all over.”
We sat silent for a moment. Lisa looked out the window and watched a cloud drift by. Then she cleared her throat and continued. “It’s true. There’s nothing more to life for now.”
I looked up at her. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be cheering me up?”
“What? Why? What’s the use?” She threw up her hands. “You’re freaking thirty now! You’re an old man! There’s no use hiding it anymore.”
“Hey, you’re only as old as you think you are, right? So if I think I’m younger, I’ll BE younger.”
“You’d only be fooling yourself, Mike. Remember when you were a kid and twenty seemed old? Well, thirty is even older.”
I shook my head. “Nope, I can beat this. Age is relative. It’s all a social construct created in my mind. On some other planet, I might only be twelve.”
“Why fight the aging process? Your bones are starting to give up on you. Soon, your back will give out, you won’t be able to control when you pee, and your fingers will be ridden with arthritis.”
I wiggled my fingers. “Hells no, they’re still fine. I’ll just exercise more. I’ll be back in peak condition in no time.”
“Thirty is OLD Mike.”
“It’s just a state of mind.”
“And the state of your mind is thirty years old. And so’s your body.”
I stood up. “I’m not going to take this sitting down. I’m going to go out and do some running, dammit. Talking to you is no help at all.” I stormed out of the room.
Lisa sat back in her chair and looked out the window again. More clouds drifted by.
Slowly, a smile crept across her face. She picked up her iPod, put on her headphones, and put on some Britney Spears.
. . .
How old do you think you are?
Categories:
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Conversations,
Getting Older,
In a Cafe,
Life,
Sleeping,
Stress,
The Media,
Theories,
Values,
Work“Damn, I can’t remember what he said, but I remember it was something important.”
Laura gave me the Raised Eyebrow. “You can’t remember? That was like, only ten minutes ago!”
I sighed. “I know, I know…”
“It’s old age, isn’t it? Your memory is going.” She shook her head sadly with a look of utter resignation. “It’s all over for you, Mike. It’s all over.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence. Really.”
“I’m merely saying what has to be said. It’s time to face the truth, Mike.”
Now I gave her the Raised Eyebrow. “You’re funny. And so is your face! Ha!”
“Distasteful jokes won’t bring your memory back, grandpa. And you look like The Rock when you try doing the Raised Eyebrow thing.”
“What?” I raised my eyebrow again. “Do I, really?”
“Yup. Just like the Rock, only a memory-lapsing version of him.”
I rubbed my eyes. “You know why my memory isn’t as good as it used to be? It’s because of the complex society in which we live.”
“Oh? Do tell, Mr. Sociologist.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. Here are Mike’s reasons for the increasing memory loss of young professionals in an urban American life.”
“Great thesis. You should write a paper on this.”
“Or maybe a ramble. Hmm.” I scratched my chin. “Well, okay, so here are my reasons. Reason One: Information Overload.”
“Information Overload? Don’t you mean old age?”
“If you’re going to keep interrupting me,” I cast the Evil Eye, “then I’m not going to tell you.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll keep quiet. Please continue.” She sat back in her seat and regarded me like a sad little puppy. I huffed, then continued.
“Information Overload.” I cleared my throat. “We are being bombarded by more media, messages, and information than previous generations. We have access to way more stored knowledge and information than generations before. Television, the Internet, books, billboards, and even ads in public restrooms, for goodness’ sake. There is more informational stimuli coming into our brains than we can reasonably handle. Therefore, most of that information is going to slip out of our minds. We simply can’t retain it all.”
“Okay, I can buy that.”
“Good, I’m glad I have your approval. Now, Reason Two: Responsibility Overload.”
She chuckled. “Oooo, you have good titles for these.”
“Why thank you. I’m making these all up as I go.”
“Really?” Another Raised Eyebrow. “Impressive, Mike, impressive. Go on.”
“Responsibility Overload. Not only is more information coming at us, but so is more responsibility. Now we have to worry about school loans, car loans, mortgages, life insurance, house insurance, other kinds of insurance, 401ks, IRAs, savings accounts, checking accounts, investment accounts,”—breath—”child care, new age parenting techniques, quality school systems, quality colleges, good careers, new technologies, new wars, dictatorships, terrorists, bombings, weapons of mass destruction, AIDS, new diseases, biological warfare, drugs, teenage pregnancies, violence in video games, violence on television, Social Security, Medicare, pensions, retirement… shall I go on?”
“Gosh Mike, now I’m really depressed.”
“Good. There are a lot of responsibilities and concerns for us nowadays. Our parents didn’t have as many things to worry about. And the kicker is, most of these things aren’t even things we should be worried about! But our society and the media has created a Culture of Worry and all of these things are things we must be worried about now, otherwise we’d be considered uneducated and ignorant citizens.”
“Can you shoot me now? Please? Put me out of my misery.”
“And that’s only Reason Two. Reason Three is Sleep Deprivation.”
Laura rubbed her eyes. “I sure feel tired, although I’m too freaked out and depressed to fall asleep now.”
“That’s exactly it!” I pounded the table. “We’re all too busy or freaked out or worried to sleep. Who ever gets a full eight hours of sleep nowadays? Who?”
“Not me. I got four hours last night.”
“Exactly! I got about six I think. We had less than that during college. Doctors get even less sleep. You know how pre-med students have to do those crazy rotations? Well, I’ve heard that some have to stay awake for a full 36 hours!”
“That’s crazy! I couldn’t stay awake for 36 hours.”
“Do you really want a doctor who’s been awake for 36 hours to treat you? Hells no! But we still force those students to do that. And in the dot-com industry, it was pretty standard to pull all-nighters and code code code all night long. Sleep is seen as an unnecessary task that we need to minimize, so that we can be as productive as possible. This has led to a Culture of Sleep Walkers, or zombies that go through life everyday in a daze. We all need more sleep. Our brains can’t function well without enough sleep.”
Laura bit her lip. “You’ve convinced me. I’m going to sleep for like a week now.”
“And you should! Because that would help with Reason Four too. Increased Stress. All of that extra information and responsibility, combined with a lack of sleep, is adding a foundation of extra stress in all of our lives. Stress is the leading cause of heart attacks and poor health, both physical and mental. We’re all killing ourselves slowly, and we don’t even realize it.”
“You’re totally stressing me out, Mike.”
“Finally, there’s Reason Five: Multitasking.”
“Multitasking?” Laura raised her eyebrow again. “Are we talking about computers now?”
“You really like the Raised Eyebrow thing, don’t you?”
“Maybe I have a chance to become the next Rock.”
I smirked. “You mean like a Rockette?”
“Ha! Funny, Mike. So funny I forgot to laugh.”
“You forgot, huh? See, you’ve got memory loss too!”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, you’ve caught me. That’s because I’m suffering from information overload, responsibility overload, sleep deprivation, increased stress, and multitasking.”
I nodded solemnly. “You’ve learned well, my young apprentice.”
“So go on. Tell me about Multitasking.”
“Okay, Multitasking. So we’re being forced to diverge our brains onto more and more tasks nowadays. Being able to focus on several different things at once can be a helpful trait. But generally, too many different tasks can begin to wear down one’s productivity. Also, the very nature of multitasking means each task is getting only a part of your attention at any given time. No one task is being done as well as it could be. You’re splitting up your ability to do a great job on one task, into several tasks all done with mediocrity. Computers can multitask well, but human beings aren’t meant to.”
“So I really shouldn’t chew gum and walk at the same time?”
“Hells no! Otherwise, you might die!”
“Aaaahhh!” she screamed and spit out her gum.
“Whoa, I had no idea you were chewing gum this whole time. You hid it well.”
“I’ve learned to hide gum chewing well, so that I can chew gum at work.”
“You chew gum during work?” I scratched my head. “Isn’t that unprofessional?”
“Yea, that’s why I have to hide it.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Do you have any more reasons to your thesis?”
“Nope, that’s all I can think of for now. Five reasons. I think that’s plenty enough.”
“Definitely! Now you’ve gotten me all scared and stressed out and feeling like I just need to lie in bed for the next month or so.”
“And you know what will happen if you do?”
“What?”
“You’ll probably find your memory improving again. You see, without all this extra stimuli, you’ll be able to focus on a smaller set of important things at once. And you’ll be able to perform them much better.”
“I’d also lose my job too.”
“Ah, yes,” I sighed. “That’s the price you’d have to pay for an improved memory.”
“Can’t I just prioritize all of the stimuli and information and responsibilities that I have, so I can focus on the most important ones instead?”
I paused. “Um…” I scratched my head again. “Yea, I guess you can.”
“Aw Mike, did I just blow that entire theory of yours?”
I sat back in my chair in resignation. “Wow, yea, I guess you did. And I thought I had such a well thought-out theory too.”
“Well, maybe you’re still right. And prioritization is simply the answer to the problem your theory poses.”
“Hey, you’re right! You’re a genius!”
“I know,” Laura beamed. “That’s because I’m smart and don’t have memory problems like you do, grandpa.”
. . .
How is your memory?
As his eyes rose to the sun-brazen sky, he thought to himself: “Yup, today is a good day to make amends.”
The old man staggered down the steps of his porch. Each worn board creaked out a different tale. He stomped onto the sand and puffed dirt into the sky. His cane pressed into the ground and left behind a solitary mark.
A wind began to gust. It howled around him as he wandered into the open wheat field behind his ranch. Both his bones and the wind sang to him, a raspy whistling tune.
He turned around and surveyed his home. The two-story house stood proud yet empty. There once was laughter all around. The old man blinked his wet eyes to try to see it again. “Ah, there it is.”
A little boy raced around the house, chased by an older boy and a younger girl. A woman stood in the doorway with a cup of coffee, smiling. The older boy caught the younger one and tackled him. The girl squealed and jumped up and down in delight. The boys tumbled into the grass and howled.
Then a puff of smoke appeared in the street. The children stopped playing and looked up. A truck rounded the bend and cruised towards the house. “Poppa!” cheered the children.
A man stepped out from the truck. The children ran up and encircled his legs. “Poppa!” they shouted.
He smiled and jumbled their hair. “How are my little munchkins?” he teased. The boys ran in circles around him as he picked up the little girl and gave her a kiss. “And how are you, my little princess?”
The little girl giggled. “We played hide-and-go-seek today!” she announced with glee. “And I hid in a bush behind the house and they couldn’t find me!”
“Is that so? Why, you’re a clever little princess!”
The woman walked over. “Hi honey!”
“Hi baby!” he greeted and hugged and kissed her too.
The vision began to blur. Blinking, the old man rubbed his eyes and tried to save the past. When he looked up again, it was gone.
He sighed and started towards the wheat field again. The wind rushed dirt and leaves around his thin legs. Covered only by tattered trousers and worn-out patches, his legs shivered. In the wind, a few lonely gray hairs fluttered, as if trying to leave his old body.
His joints cracked and the pain almost made him yelp. Breathing heavily, he steadied himself with his cane as he felt his heart pounding in his chest. Each beat was a thunderous roar. He winced and continued on.
As he brushed aside the wheat, the memories picked at his ears. He heard faint noises inside the house. Once again, a truck drove up to the house. But this time, no “Poppa!” cheers greeted the man in the truck.
The man entered the house. Footsteps approached him. “It’s so late, honey,” said the woman’s voice. A muffled agreement answered her. “The kids are upstairs already, asleep. We were waiting for you for dinner, but they finally got too tired and went to sleep.”
Another muffled answer came from the man and the footsteps shuffled apart.
The old man rubbed his ears. He wasn’t sure he wanted to keep listening, but he couldn’t stop it now. “Honey,” spoke the woman’s voice, “how much longer do you have to keep working so late?”
The tired man’s voice muttered, “I’m sorry baby. You know I have to keep doing this for the family. I have a lot of responsibilities.” Then he fell into the bed, exhausted.
This pain was worse than the pain in the old man’s joints. He grabbed his chest. Each breath was a labor of agony. The pounding of his old heart was getting louder.
His eyes were tearing again. He blinked but wasn’t able to clear them. In front of him was the woman, lying peacefully in an open casket. Her arms were to her sides and her eyes were closed.
The man cried as his children attended to the funeral. “Dad,” one of them said days later. “I think you ought to go live in a place where someone can take care of you.”
The man looked at his son, bewildered. “You mean leave this house? Live in a nursing home? Our family grew up here. I can’t leave here.”
The son shook his head. “Now that Mom’s gone, we can’t leave you alone.”
“Then stay,” said the man quietly, hopefully. “Stay with me. Just for a little while.”
“Dad, we have our own lives now. I’ve already taken off enough days for this funeral. I can’t take off any more time. I have responsibilities.”
The man bowed his head and nodded. He taught his children well. “I’m staying,” he declared. “I can take care of myself here.”
The son sighed. “Fine, Dad.” He stood up and took his coat. “We’ll visit you once in a while.”
The man smiled and nodded. The son turned and left.
Howling all around the old man, the wind began to pick up. Dirt swished and swirled. He covered his eyes and nose. Particles of sand bit his skin, attacking him from a thousand sides. He wobbled on his cane, trying desperately to hold himself up. Then, as suddenly as it rose, the wind died.
He coughed. It was a painful cough that radiated throughout his entire frail body. In reply, his heart sent shockwaves through his nerves. The combined assault blinded his senses momentarily.
The old man griped his cane tightly. Grabbed onto his chest again, he willed himself forward and took another step. Then he continued on.
A phone rang. He looked around him. Nothing but the wheat field and his house far in the distance could be seen. The phone rang again. Another memory drifted with the wind and into his ears.
“Hi Dad, I won’t be able to come over again this year,” spoke a voice on the other line.
“It’s okay. How are you doing?”
“Awful. Another collections agent came by the house today. I can’t pay these guys and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Why don’t you ask your brother or sister for help?”
“They’re not in much better shape than I am, Dad. She’s deeper in debt than she lets on and used to borrow from me all the time. Guess I can’t lend her any more money now.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“Yea. And he isn’t much better. His ex-wife ended up taking most of his assets. He’s back at the diner now.”
“The diner? But I thought he was…”
“Working as a clerk at that office downtown? He is. He’s got three jobs now. How else can he afford to support his kid?”
The man sighed. “How are your kids?”
“They’re okay I think. I just got them a video game console with my credit card, so that ought to keep them busy all day.”
“Is that really good for them?”
“Sure, why not? It keeps them busy so I can put in more overtime hours.”
“But is that really a good way for your kids to learn?”
“Dad, it’s not like I have a choice, you know. I can’t just go home and play with my kids. I have responsibilities. You know that.”
The man sighed again. “Yes, yes I do.”
“Oh, and before I forget: happy birthday Dad.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll try to see if I can make it next year, okay?”
“Okay.”
The old man rubbed his ears until they were red. Hot red tears stung his eyes. He dropped his cane and gasped. The pounding in his chest was deafening now. His legs wobbled as he tried to bend them down to reach his cane.
Something in his knee popped. He doubled over and fell. The dirt puffed up around him, covering him in a shroud of sand. He tried to move his left arm but couldn’t. It lay there, motionless, next to his shivering body. Right in front of him was his cane, a gift from his wife.
He thought he could hear a phone ring again. He doubted it was real, although today was his birthday and his son used to call him on his birthdays.
The pain seemed to wash away like a tide ebbing. It was enough to give him a moment of reprieve. Another memory, a recent memory, drifted into his mind.
When he left his house today, he made a birthday wish. He wished he could help his children somehow, to make amends in some way. But he didn’t know how. Until now.
Then the old man closed his eyes.
. . .
Several days later, county policemen found the body of an old man lying in a wheat field behind his house. The man was dead. The medical examiner determined the cause of death to be of natural causes, most probably a heart attack. No foul play was suspected.
The old man was survived by two sons and a daughter. Each was bequeathed a sizable inheritance, the combined sum of a life insurance payment and the remarkable property value of the land and the house. It was enough to relinquish the presumed financial difficulties of his children.
Strangely, the old man was found with a smile on his lips. In his right arm was a cane. Based on his appearance, it was believed that he died peacefully.
What is maturity?
Realizing how uncommon maturity is can be a sobering thought, just like realizing how uncommon common sense is. This awareness is often coupled with the recognition that age and maturity share no mutual bonds.
What exactly is this concept we call maturity? There are many ways to define it. I believe it was Oprah Winfrey (or was it Ann Landers?) who said, “A sign of maturity is when you do something good and resist the urge to tell anyone about it.”
There’s also this short essay from an unknown author:
What is maturity? Maturity is the ability to control anger and settle differences without violence or destruction. Maturity is patience. It is the willingness to pass up immediate pleasure in favor of the long-term gain. Maturity is perseverance, the ability to sweat out a project or a situation in spite of heavy opposition and discouraging set-backs. Maturity is the capacity to face unpleasantness and frustration, discomfort and defeat, without complaint or collapse. Maturity is humility. It is being big enough to say, “I was wrong.” And, when right, the mature person need not experience the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.”
Maturity is the ability to make a decision and stand by it. The immature spend their lives exploring endless possibilities; then they do nothing.
Maturity means dependability, keeping one’s word, coming through in a crisis. The immature are masters of the alibi. They are the confused and the disorganized. Their lives are a maze of broken promises, former friends, unfinished business, and good intentions that somehow never materialize.
Maturity is the art of living in peace with that which we cannot change, the courage to change that which should be changed – and the wisdom to know the difference.
Striking, isn’t it? That is perhaps one of the best descriptions of maturity I’ve found.
If you ask a psychologist about maturity, the doctor may tell you about Intellectual Maturity and Emotional Maturity, and the non-existent bond to Chronological Maturity (age).
Intellectual Maturity is academic or occupational knowledge. This is what you learn from school or work; this is objective information that can be tested and evaluated. Emotional Maturity encompasses social interactions, emotional balance, and self confidence. The above essay beautifully portrays this.
The psychologist may describe maturity as:
- The ability to give and receive love
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- Emotional maturity fosters a sense of security which permits vulnerability. A mature person can show his vulnerability by expressing love and accepting expressions of love from those who love him.
- The ability to face reality and deal with it
- The immature avoid facing reality. Mature people eagerly face reality knowing the quickest way to solve a problem is to deal with it promptly. A person’s level of maturity can be directly related to the degree to which they face their problems, or avoid their problems.
- Just as interested in giving as receiving
- A mature person’s sense of personal security permits him to consider the needs of others and give from his personal resources, whether money, time, or effort, to enhance the quality of life of those he loves. They are also able to allow others to give to them.
- The capacity to relate positively to life experiences
- A mature person views life experiences as learning experiences and when they are positive he enjoys and revels in life. When they are negative he accepts personal responsibility and is confident he can learn from them to improve his life.
- The ability to learn from experience
- The ability to face reality and to relate positively to life experiences derive from the ability to learn from experience. Immature people do not learn from experience, whether the experience is positive or negative.
- The ability to accept frustration
- When things don’t go as anticipated the immature person stamps his feet, holds his breath, and bemoans his fate. The mature person considers using another approach or going another direction and moves on with his life.
- The ability to handle hostility constructively
- When frustrated, the immature person looks for someone to blame. The mature person looks for a solution.
- Relative freedom from tension symptoms
- Immature people feel unloved, avoid reality, are pessimistic about life, get angry easily, attack the people closest to them when frustrated. The mature person’s mature approach to live imbues him with a relaxed confidence in his ability to get what he wants from life.
Before you tell yourself that you must be immature because you don’t satisfy these descriptions, please remember that maturity is a subjective and comparative trait. Your brother may be immature compared to you, and you may be immature compared to your sister.
What the unknown author and psychologist fail to mention is that if you intend to measure yourself (or someone else) with their descriptions, you have to use a rolling scale. It’s not black or white; you’re not mature or immature. Maturity is in shades of gray.
While age doesn’t correlate to maturity, life experience, over time, does increase one’s maturity. The rate of increase differs depending on your inclinations, preferences, background, influences, and a host of other nature & nurture issues. But it will increase.
I’ve observed several common symptoms of maturity. An awareness, or curiosity, of maturity is generally the first step. Growing tolerance and acceptance of oneself often follows, with tolerance and acceptance of others close behind. With this is a greater understanding of oneself, from knowing one’s limits and preferences to establishing realistic goals. Balance is another key point; balance in work and life, family and friends, needs and wants, idealistic thoughts and realistic thoughts. Finally, a solid sense of quiet self-confidence and peace enters the person.
We all exhibit maturity in different ways and we all mature at different paces. While it’s sobering to see such a slow pace in so many people, it’s comforting to know that those who strive for maturity will get there. I am not trying to imply that I am fully mature, but at least I strive for it.
. . .
What do you think is maturity?
Game? Do I have game, you ask? Amidst this club, this pounding music, these blinking lights?
No. I do not have game.
It’s impossible to get to know anyone in this environment. It’s possible to make eye contact, follow the smile, buy a drink, and grind on the dance floor, sure. Anything more than that will be drowned by the pounding.
What exactly is this game of which you speak? The ability to pick up girls and get their numbers? Their “digits”?
I’ve met my fair share of single girls. I’ve had my fair share of dates. I’ll even go as far as to say that in a city where there are many more single guys than girls, I consider myself blessed to have had little trouble meeting single girls.
Meeting single girls and going on dates is not difficult. Meeting the right girl is. Meeting one that is compatible with you, that you like and that likes you. That’s the hard part.
But this game of which you speak, no, I don’t have that. Not anymore.
Maybe once I did. Maybe once, I even enjoyed it. It was fun: meeting a beautiful stranger, dancing close and tight with her, and maybe ending the night with a kiss.
This game of which you speak gets old though. It gets tiring. It gets stupid.
I need more now. I need intelligent and funny conversation. I need a witty and meaningful discourse. I need more than, “Hey baby, how you doin’?”
While the bass is pounding, it’s awkward to talk about the economy, politics, and the effects of our evolving society on future generations of our children. Perhaps there are a few girls in a club who would actually enjoy such a conversation, but I sure haven’t met any.
It’s because I’m older now. I’m in a different stage in my life. There’s a lot more that going to a club and trying to use my game. Not that I have any.
There’s nothing wrong with this either. That point should be made clear. I did it once. It’s not an evil thing. People go to clubs for two reasons: to dance and to meet new people. You don’t go to a club just to talk; if you want to do that, go to a lounge or café or somewhere else more quiet.
And those are great reasons. It’s a lot of fun, if you like to dance and meet new people.
So this game of which you speak. I do not have it. Not anymore. And I’m damn glad I don’t.
. . .
Do you have game?
“Michael, come with me,” commanded my father. I blinked, got up from my homework, and followed him. We walked into the family TV room.
“Sit down.”
I sat down.
He turned on the TV and VCR. With steady hands, he carefully inserted a video cassette into the VCR and switched to channel three.
“Now watch this.”
I nodded.
He left the room and shut the door. I watched him leave and blinked again. What in the world is going on? I wondered. Did I do something wrong?
I was a good kid growing up. At the time, I was still in junior high school. Seventh grade, I think it was. I always did my homework, got good grades, and respected my parents. I couldn’t think of a reason why my father would act this way.
Then the show started.
A bunch of cartoon bunnies appeared. They started talking about sex. Two cartoon bunnies hopped into bed and the cartoon male bunny pulled out a cartoon bunny condom. Then they started humping.
Later, they got married and they hopped into bed again after their honeymoon. This time, the cartoon male bunny didn’t use a cartoon bunny condom.
A close-up of a cartoon bunny penis appeared. It was a diagram to portray the inner workings of the penis. Then a close-up of a cartoon bunny vagina appeared, also in full diagramic glory.
As the cartoon bunnies humped in bed, little cartoon bunny sperm raced towards a cartoon bunny egg. They were smiling and had little cartoon bunny ears. One of them won and it shouted, “Yippeee!”.
The cartoon female bunny’s stomach grew large. Then dozens of cartoon baby bunnies popped out of her, all smiling with big floppy cartoon bunny ears.
“And that,” stated the show’s announcer, “is where babies come from.” Which I knew already because I learned about it half a year ago at school.
The show ended. I got up, ejected the tape, and walked out of the room.
My father was sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. I approached him and handed him the tape. “Thanks,” he said as he took the tape. Then he returned to the newspaper. I don’t think he was reading it because he had it turned to a page full of ads. Plus, it was upside-down.
I walked back to my room and saw my dad glance at me from my peripheral vision.
We never spoke of this incident ever again.
. . .
How did you learn about the birds and the bees?
