This past week I caught myself telling this joke to a friend: “What do galaxies do to organize a party? They planet.”
Now, if you’re still reading, thank you for not closing your browser after reading that joke. It wasn’t easy for me either. When those words first stumbled out to my friend I knew what I was doing and how unfunny it was. It was like watching two cars about to crash into one another in slow-motion: horrifying but too exciting to look away. Less than a year ago I would have vomited at the lameness of that joke, and yet that didn’t stop me. I used to always think that I had a higher standard of comedy. What’s happened?
When I was 16 my friends would come over to my house and their eyes light up as they asked if my father was home. This wasn’t because Dad would slide us a couple of beers, it was because he always made a point of having a new joke to tell them whenever they would come over. I use the word “joke” in a loose sense. Dad’s jokes end in groans due to the unsavory or non-existent punchline, so much so that I have a video of my uncle angrily muttering under his breath after one particularly rough one. He told ones about bowling, ones about couples having sex in The Home Depot, and one about a dead dog. Woof. The dead dog in the joke was named “Old Blue” and my friends and I still reference it.
So now I catch myself making a similar joke in terms of lameness and I ask myself “oh no, who am I becoming?” In the words of Mac Demarco, “looks like I'm seeing more of my old man in me.” In a literal sense, I’m not having that problem. I have always physically been a nondescript combination of my parents’ genes, a hybrid that doesn’t look too much like either of them. But in terms of behavior, I see it more and more.
Case One: They walk three miles every day around 7pm. I used to laugh at this idea, quickly running past and not having time for their slow stroll. But now, walking is one of my favorite activities because it’s one of the few times where I’m with just myself and my thoughts.
Case Two: My friend and I recently talked about our ideal houses/lifestyles as settled adults. My answer consisted of many of the elements my parents have: a quiet town, a large produce garden, and a very smart son named “Cameron.”
Case Three: My dad’s and my cough sound identical to one another.
It makes sense that I’m adopting my parent’s ways. They’ve been my modeling figures for my entire life. I am fortunate to be able to see them work stable jobs and have a supportive marriage, so of course my brain says: “if they have this they must be doing something right.”
I used to adamantly oppose what they believed in: cleaning habits, organization habits, and film-watching habits. Living with them allowed my life to be dictated by them, not me, and as I grew restless my annoyance with them manifested as a dismissal of their way of life. But thankfully, that angst is dwindling. And it seems to be getting replaced by a sense of humor as pungent as my father’s.
In their article “32 – The Age at Which We Turn Into Our Parents,” The Telegraph cites that “The pressures of career, buying a house and, particularly, having children are the main triggers to the change, it adds.” I will becoming more and more like them because I will be asking similar questions and facing similar challenges that I saw them face like taxes, work, and exercise.
To quote another musician, here’s Jay-Z: “history doesn’t repeat itself it rhymes.” I’m not destined to be my parents. I am aware of the behaviors I want to adopt into my life and the ones I’m fine with passing on. A lifestyle buffet, as it were. But I am happy to listen to The Moody Blues, take long walks, eat home-cooked food, go to the movie theater every week, and read a book every night.
What’s a galaxy’s favorite gum? Orbit.
