Fine Lines

By Dale Brasel

Forty-five. So maybe this wasn’t what I planned as far as where I would be on my life path, but, as it turns out, that is okay. I don’t have the I. M. Pei-designed abode with a pair of Airedale Terriers named Buddy and Sally (an homage to The Dick Van Dyke Show) standing guard at the front gates—as if blondes with goatees are ever really considered menacing, canine or otherwise. No high rise vacation condo on Waikiki where I would sip on a Mai Tai out of a pineapple, spritz my face with canned Evian, and feed bananas to a pet chimp wearing a Nehru jacket. No helicopter. No personal chef. No problem. So many of the indulgent dreams of a 27-year old seem silly when you hit your forties. Not to get all Eckhart Tolle on anyone, but there comes an age where either you freak out with a mid-life crisis and act like an idiot, or you take stock of what you have worked for and lived through and say, “Hey, this is so much better than what I thought it was going to be.” When I was that twenty-something kid, I thought Forty-five was ancient. It’s closer to death than birth. Now that I’m here, I feel surprisingly young. That’s not to say that the condo on Waikiki isn’t still something to shoot for, but knowing what I know now, chimps seem to make awful pets since they have been known to chew the face off of their owners. Now there is something to regret.

Exactly when did I slip into the skin of a mid-lifer with complete comfort? It was on Saturday, April 18^th, 2009, just before midnight. I had cooked a ham for Easter the previous Sunday. Always the thrifty dreamer, I was confident I would save the bone to make split pea soup. Earlier that evening, a buddy called to say that a group of people were meeting up at what was then the “hot” club (it’s LA, so don’t blink). It sounded fun to hang out with friends, and having practically grown up in clubs, I’m still known to hit them, so why not? Having just jumped out of the shower and checked my ears for mid-life hair growth, I put on some boxers and thought to myself, I’m sick of looking at that ham bone. I should just throw it out now so I won’t have to look at it in the morning with the probable likelihood of mild hangover. Barefoot, wet head, and clad only in Texas state flag boxers, I head to the trash bins curbside with a Belvedere and diet Dr. Pepper in one hand and the Saran Wrapped bone in the other. I noticed there was still more than a little bit of ham on the bone, and what a waste it would be not to get just one last taste. It was a damn good ham. As I nibbled on the bits looking much like a caveman, a car drove by with a group of what I took to be out-on-the-town kids dressed most likely in Christian Audigier with Lady Gaga blaring out of the cracked, overly tinted windows. They slowed down to look at the nearly nude, slightly gray man chomping on a bone in his driveway. In all fairness, who wouldn’t slow down to get a look at that? In my own self-assured world, I didn’t think twice about it…at the time. What I did think was, “Lady Gaga? Yuck. She’s really just a recycled Stacey Q. Those kids need to get real.” At that point, I knew I was of a “certain” age. I ended up staying at home that night and skipped the club. Who needs the long valet lines? I was clean, ear hair free, and had eaten some honey baked pig alfresco. Plus I had recorded episodes of My Big Redneck Wedding I had been meaning to catch up on. Content is content.

Age versus youth isn’t a fine line…it’s more like crows feet. I know too many people in my age group who are grasping on to youth in the most desperate ways. They spend an excessive amount of time on Twitter and Facebook reconnecting with high school friends. They spend their nights getting on guest lists for the bars and clubs they overhear the interns in the office chat about. This much I know: when one hits that “certain” age, you may convince yourself that hanging out with 27 year-olds makes you feel younger, but ultimately it just makes your look older. There is already one Sylvia Miles, and even she could barely pull off being Sylvia Miles. I believe that no matter what your age, you should be out having fun, acting like a kid, and feeling young, but if you are consistently spending time hanging out with and embracing the culture of someone 25 or 30 years your junior in bars, you might want to check your visitor pass for an expiration date. There’s a lot to be learned from the younger generation, and there is a lot to share with them, but it shouldn’t be an enormous, end of the night bar bill they’ve racked up on your tab gulping down shots. Ever notice how pesky flies disappear at night? Take a cue from Mother Nature. If constantly surrounding yourself with a big posse from the generation following yours made you a well rounded person, than how do you explain Octomom? Sir Richard Branson is one of the hippest, youthful, life-loving people around, but I doubt he is swapping IPod play lists with Taylor Swift—or that he’s planning on hanging out with Heidi & Spencer in an effort to look cool.

The first time someone called me “sir”—as a reference to age, as I am not knighted—it stung a bit. Now it’s a badge of honor. I take it, whether it is intended or not, as someone recognizing the handful of decades I’ve been around to collect life experiences. And by “life experiences,” I mean collecting random thoughts to the most superficial of questions and not to be confused with wisdom. Take for instance the Amaretto di Sorano television ad where the actor/bartender (there’s a stretch, huh?) explains how to make an Amaretto and orange juice. Who is their target audience? If someone can’t figure out that an Amaretto and orange juice is Amaretto and orange juice, should they really be numbing their senses any further with alcohol? I’m loaded with quirky thoughts that I can’t get out of my head. Fact: Kathy Ireland is both a successful lamp and sock designer. Is there such a thing as an Elvis impersonator “impersonator?” How many bongs are there in capitol, Washington, D.C. per capita? Isn’t polenta just a fancy name for grits? Where have all of the Irish Setters gone? When did Steve Martin stop being the funniest man alive? Was the person who invented the wedge salad really just a lazy chef? Wouldn’t it be fun to not only ask red carpet stars what designer they are wearing but also to spell it? I’ve spent years pondering these and many other useless bits, but the key is I have had time to ponder them.

It is said that age is just a number. A friend told me that a recently installed baby changing station in the men’s room of his favorite, all over TMZ, scene-and-be-scene restaurant /lounge had him questioning where he was in life. What could this possibly mean and what was it telling him and all of his friends about his forty-something single lifestyle? What could this mean? What could this mean? My first thought was that much like pairing linen shirts with corduroy pants, mixing cocktails and babies is just a bad, bad idea. Instead of dwelling on some larger ramification of meaning (it’s just about poo, brother), just be thrilled that there is a stable and convenient place to rest your beer instead of the normal balancing act of placing it on top of a urinal. Keeping with the lemons and lemonade adage, when life hands you a changing table…make it your cocktail table. Age really is just a number and it’s all in how you do the math whether it adds up in your favor or not. Now carry the 2.

Many things haven’t changed from when I was a twenty-something dreamer bound for Honolulu and a monkey. Always have big ideas about the future. My aspirations may not be over-the-top indulgences —and that is probably a good thing—but they can be just as frivolous. At 45, I might have come across the dream occupation that has eluded me thus far. I would like to be the person who names the colors of Behr Paints…a colorologist, if you will. I used to think I would be perfect to be the official name giver to eyeglass frames, but after much consideration, I think paint colors is the way to go. Behr has the cute names covered such as Pecan Sandie, Kola Bear, and Plum Frost, but I’m thinking names with a little bit of an edge: Jonas Brothers Pure White, Last Night’s Ashtray Taupe, or Chimp Chewed Face Red. Maybe even Forty Five Year Old Slightly Gray…I already have the sample.