My Heart Won't Go On

Sometimes we’ll turn on TV and listen to the news in the background as we make dinner. OK, who am I kidding? We usually plop down in front of the boob tube during our dinner and watch Access Hollywood. Neither of us like that Mary Hart chick on Entertainment Tonight, but I think there may be an impending move to her because Billy Bush quite possibly is the most annoying man on this planet.

Anywho, last night we’re listening glued to Access Hollywood and they hit their ‘birthdays’ segment. Most of the time they’ll bring up someone like Ned Beatty and announce that he turned 89. Customarily, we usually will follow with, “Huh, I thought he was dead.”

But last night, as I’m wolfing down on some microwaved dish from Costco, Nancy O’Dell begins her nightly announcements.

“Today, Celine Dion turns 38,” she says. I start to cough and choke.

As I regain composure, I look up at Larry and say, “That bitch is younger than me?” In three seconds it hits me that I am middle aged. At 39 and 1/4, I’ve now hit that stage where I’m older than lots of famous people. Sure I always knew I was older than Britney and Jessica Simpson and even groups like Matchbox Twenty. But Celine? Fuck!

I mean that woman went public about pregnancy issues so naturally I just assumed those ovaries were nearing 50 or something. Plus isn’t her husband like battling Alzheimer’s or something?

In an instant, I realize that I’ve become my parents. (Actually, my folks are really cheap and don’t believe in good skin care products, so just pick your own random set of parental-types.) It hits me that I again have moved into a new stage of my life. It doesn’t matter if I run an 8K in great clothes. It doesn’t matter if I work out or go hiking in the Shenandoahs.

I’m a middle age dad. I’m the person at work who cares more about his retirement than happy hour. I’m the guy who accidentally puts on dress socks with gym shoes and shrugs it off. (Only with long pants mind you. I’m not at the point where you’ll see me in dress socks and shorts. That blog entry will come much later.)

However, when I look down at the smiling face of my three year old, I’m the happiest man alive.

So stick that in your ovaries, you stupid French Canadian tart!