(Writer’s Note: For full effect, read this in the voice of Andy Rooney.)
Do you remember being a kid and always wishing you could be (or pretending that you were) just a little older? Remember as a small child, when you couldn’t wait to turn 10 and enter the double-digit club, and then it was all about becoming a teenager? From there, the two or three years between being able to do nothing but complain about how hard and unfair life, school, your siblings and parents were and being trusted behind the wheel of a car to drive off to freedom instead of some cliff seemed interminable. Trust me, I witnessed it too.
After that, you couldn’t wait to turn 18, which meant that you could do things like vote, attend college, get married without parental consent (not that it helps anyway), or leave the house should you have the desire and rent money. Then came the big leap to 21, which meant that you could legally drink alcohol.
With all that desire to age more quickly and become an adult, I don’t hear anyone beyond 30 saying things like, “I can’t wait to turn 47 or 59.” Other than the magic age of retirement, the ability to collect social security or, if you’re really lucky, becoming eligible to tap into a trust fund that was set up for you by someone smarter than you, getting old is not for the timid or shy. Thankfully, I’m neither of those.
For most of my adult life, I took great comfort in hearing the curmudgeonly rants and ramblings of Andy Rooney every Sunday night on “60 Minutes.” I even suffered through overtime in football just to make sure that I wouldn’t miss what he had to say or what was on his mind. He not only made me laugh, he almost made sense. And now we’ve come to the end of an era, where at the age of 93, Mr. Rooney has decided to give up the helm and leave the observant complaining to someone else.
I hope they consider hiring me. I can’t wait to be 93.