About a year and a half ago my friend beckoned me to come over to his apartment- he had to show me something. I walked into the door, and was instantly blinded by an array of wondrous colors. The combinations of colors stunned me for a few moments before I was able to regain my eyesight. When my pupils readjusted themselves, I realized I was in the presence of the greatest array of Hawaiian shirts that had ever been assembled this side of the hemisphere. I stumbled around in awe of what I saw. My buddy Kyler told me how he attained over 50 Hawaiian shirts that day. A mutual friend of ours had all of them stuffed into his trunk for a while, and when he saw Kyler he asked if he wanted to buy the lot for 25 bucks. Kyler, being a man of opportunity, jumped on the deal and brought them home. I begged him to let me take three home if he would be so kind. He silently nodded with a sense of pride knowing he was a part of a significant change of course in my life. I scoured the floor where they were strewn, and found the three loves of my life. I clutched them as a mother would with her newborn baby, and drove well over the speed limit home to show my wife what I had gotten. Little did I know that would start a spiral that some say is downward, and others say is an upward trajectory that shall never come down.

At that moment a tear happened in the space-time continuum, causing me to change the course that is my life in such a violent manner that all those around me would be greatly affected. At that moment I embraced being an old man. The moment my first silky, breezy Hawaiian shirt became draped over my shoulders a change started to happen. My desires changed. I started to golf as often as I could, and I would wear golf shirts because I wanted to not because I was going to go golf. My Sperry’s became attached to my feet in an odd symbiotic relationship. One moment I would be talking to my wife, and in an instant I’d have a whiskey on the rocks with a cigar in my mouth. Whenever I surfed, my beard would turn a gorgeous white, and I would shred waves like a man who was possessed by the spirit of Poseidon. My ability to recall life being much harder when I was younger grew sharper by the day, and my passion for telling stories grew. My basketball game morphed from that of an under developed 12 year old into a weathered veteran who had a shot as smooth as Michael Jordan’s bald dome. My food preferences shocked those around me when they realized I now like my steak rare, and my beer light. I could pull a compound bow, and hit a target hundreds of yards away without so much of a glance in the general direction of where I was shooting. It didn’t matter that I had tattoos, or that I still wore Vans. I was going to take them, and rock them as an old man would. All this had happened, and there was little if anything I could do. I was at peace with it, and now as I finish this column, I say to you proudly, and with no remorse- I am an old man.

P.S. Pray for my dear wife; she needs as much help as she can get.