Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Darwin On Varty

Yesterday, while skateboarding across the bridge next to my home, I had an epiphany. I came to the inconclusive conclusion that I might be more highly evolved than the average man. I mentioned this to my wife, who was transporting herself across the bridge more traditionally; on foot, enjoying the safety of the sidewalk.

It also occurred to me, during my epiphany, that I may actually be the poster boy for regressive evolution. I was born in nineteen sixty-three and was fortunate enough to have a picture perfect childhood. I survived the complex yet pimplistic teen years rather well, went to university, got married, found a job, had a child. I was evolutionarily normal until the age of twenty-nine, when I managed to take one of life's more pleasant you-turns. At age thirty-less-one, I became a leisurologist; a time when I should have been foraging for nuts and berries (i.e. working).

You could have called me a stay-at-home-dad, house-husband, I wouldn't have been offended, or tried to scratch your eyes out, or sprayed you with green apple scented Lysol. In my mind, I had retired from the rat race, therefore I was a leisurologist.

I've been a leisurologist for seventeen years which, if you do the math, should make me forty-six.

Does the average forty-six year old, who goes for a Tuesday afternoon walk with his wife, take a skateboard along? Of course not. For that matter, the average forty-six year old doesn't go for a Tuesday afternoon walk with his wife. Who wants to be average, anyway? Average is boring. Average means you work from nine to five, have meat and potatoes at five thirty, watch the evening news from six until seven (damn you, Steve Murphy, with your smug little smile!!). Then you watch game shows, reality tv and/or CSI Minto from seven until ten, with the odd break to play on the internet or read. You go to bed between ten and eleven. Welcome to your life. Lights out.

I hate routine. Hate it!

Ian, are you familiar with the book Tuesdays With Morrie?

I've never read it, but of course I've heard of it.

Well, I think Wendy should write a book about her life with you. She could call it Tuesdays With Moron.

You'll notice that I'm not putting up any argument to that suggestion. As I was skateboarding across the bridge, I wondered what conversations people might have when they saw me. Probably no one gives me a second thought, other than me, but please allow me to indulge in my own little fantasies of self importance. A car approached me on the bridge. Inside the car were two old women, and this is how I imagined their conversation unfolded:

Granny 1: Watch out for that stupid skateboarder up ahead.

Granny 2: Yeah, stupid kid. I'm surprised that his mom lets him skateboard on the bridge.

Granny 1: He's a pretty tall kid. Skinny too. He's probably on drugs.

Granny 2: Definitely on drugs. Shouldn't he be in school right now?

Granny 1: Must have got kicked out for drugs. All skateboarders are on drugs.

Granny 2: Even Tony Eagle.

Granny 1: You mean Tony Hawk?

Granny 2: Oh yeah, Tony Hawk.

Granny 1: That kid on the bridge looks like Tony Hawk.

Granny 2: You know what, he doesn't look like a kid. I think it's a man.

Granny 1: Not a chance. The woman on the bridge looks like that opera singer, and that must be her retarded son with her.

Granny 2: Nope, her son's not retarded, he's quite smart. I heard he went off to university with a big scholarship.

Granny 1: Then who's that with her on the skateboard?

Granny 2: Must be her retarded husband. I heard that he hasn't worked in seventeen years.

Granny 1: The lazy bastard. There's no way I'd let my husband do that. He's not going to be happy at my expense.

"He's not going to be happy at my expense." Hmmm....that's something worth pondering.

Getting back to my theory of regressive evolution...I think that when I turned twenty-nine, the years started going backwards. Seventeen years later that makes me feel (and act) like I'm twelve, hence the skateboard.

When I got to the other side of the bridge I happened to run into the other Village Idiot. We started talking about how we feel about ourselves (shocking...two 'would be' men talking about their feelings...ladies: it does happen, you just never get to witness it). I explained my theory of regressive evolution to him. As he lit up a cigarette, a very popular thing to do among teenagers, he told me that he felt like he was eighteen.

The two Village Idiots: combined age....thirty. Combined the chart. The only question is: in what direction? I have my answer. What's yours?

1 comment:

  1. Warren Miller would say that you suffer from Terminal-Adolescence. Nothing to do with regression or whatever. It's been there all the time, it's just that at 17 there is no way to tell.

    No point trying to find a cure either, there isn't one. I know, my wife did the research. I myself suffer from a severe case of T-A. Don't worry, you get use to it and it sometimes comes in handy, like when you don't get up in the morning or when Granny #2 passes a gaz and you respond with a fatter one.