So I have this theory...

...and what better way to test a theory than to baselessly speculate about it on the internet. As was recently quoted (by a comedy TV show): "It's the internet. There's not place for truth on the internet."

Grant's [baseless] Theory of Age

When born, we (humans) are helpless beings, totally dependent on more competent humans to feed us, change us, make us happy, take care of us in case of sickness, etc, etc. Unlike other species (e.g. turtles), we cannot fend for ourselves; and without constant supervision, we (in our infant state) will surely perish.

As we age, we gain the ability to take care of ourselves. We reach an undetermined age (only undetermined because there is no way to ethically test it) where we could, if absolutely necessary, survive on our own. A 1-year-old on it's own will die. A 7-year-old on it's own might find a way to forge ahead and survive.

One day, however, we start to decline. Science today tells us that humans reach their pinnacle, their best if you will, at some point during the late 20's. As our brains deteriorate and our bodies decline, we find ourselves relying on the same assistance that we once needed as infants. Changing of diapers, feeding of nutrients, and help dressing/undressing are not uncommon for the elderly.

Our infant nature and our elderly state are often compared. We are born into diapers, and we die in them (with a brief interval free from safety-undergarments).

But I have another, possibly better, comparison for the human elderly state: the state of being drunk.

No, wait, hear me out. If you can, observe a group of elderly people. Take notes. Don't worry, they won't notice...they're old. Now observe a typical group of super-intoxicated younger people. Take notes. Don't worry, they won't notice...they're too drunk and self-involved (or on a sexual conquest) to notice.

Now make comparisons. Notice anything? You should. Here are some common quirks of drunkenness and their age-induced counterparts:

Forgetfulness: Drunk people forget their keys, where they parked their car, that they're married, and what they planned to order at the Taco Bell drive-through. Old people forget their keys, where they parked their car, that they've already taken their medication, or that they haven't eaten in 20+ hours.

Lack of Motor-Skills: Drunk people crash cars, trip over curbs (or even small cracks in the pavement), type poorly formed e-mails and text-messages, and attempt feeble punches aimed at larger (and obviously much more intimidating) bar-goers. Old people crash cars, trip over just about anything, call people the wrong name and retell stories told just minutes ago, and believe they can do tasks they could do when they were younger (e.g. carry the 30-pound bag of groceries to the car).

Confidence: Drunk people tell others of qualities/jobs/traits they do not possess, approach girls/guys so far out of their range it's laughable, and consider themselves God's gift to this earth. Old people mis-remember the past and boast of qualities/jobs/traits they never possessed, assure others they are capable of tasks they simply cannot do (e.g. drive), and due to point 1 (mis-remembering) still consider themselves to be part of the in-crowd or in the know.

Ignoring the Facts: Drunk people say they can still drive, boast of prowess (whether sexual, physical, or mental) they do not have, and proclaim loudly and often that they are not drunk. Old people say they can still drive, boast of prowess they either never had or no longer have, and proclaim loudly and often that they are not too old.

Point being, from what I can tell, being old is like being drunk without all the perks. The young person who is drunk has issues driving to the nearest Del Taco, forgets his order, crashes his car into the garage trying to park, passes out before he can "perform" for the girl he convinced to come home with him, and can't remember any of the night before; whereas the old person has issues driving to the nearest early-bird special, crashes his car into the telephone pole on the way home, can't perform for his wife of 40 years (time for a Viagra refill), and can't remember any of the night before. The difference is that the young person will sober up and not have to deal with all the previously mentioned symptoms. The old person lives perpetually in all the mentioned symptoms (with the exception being the amazingly-alert old person who still has memory and motor-skills).

The point in all of this? I can't wait to be old. It will be nice to forget to eat healthy, crash my car, and re-tell the same story 6 times in a row...and then have people say, "Oh, it's ok, he's old." At least then I'll have an excuse.

Memories

Once more inspired by Sarah Brown , I thought it was time for a random memory post. Hope you enjoy!

It’s Christmas morning. I am 9 years old and my brother and I share a room (the girls got their own rooms; apparently it’s better for the boys to share a room than the girls). We know Santa doesn’t exist; but that doesn’t curb our enthusiasm for the upcoming spectacle. It’s family tradition to head to the kitchen the morning of, and have a big glass of orange juice (coffee for the adults) before we head into the living room for present opening. 6am hits and I am wide awake. “Chad,” I whisper, “do you think the presents are there?” “Yeah,” he responds, hiding his excitement (for it’s a little kid thing to get so excited about presents…he’s too cool), “but we’re not supposed to look yet.” “Yeah,” I reply; and then I get up, sneak down the hall, and look down at the Christmas tree from the second-story balcony. In the early morning glow the tree is a beautiful silhouette and the presents glisten temptingly, hiding names on tags, hinting at untold glories ready to be unfurled upon anxious souls. No matter how good the gifts were, the waiting was always more fulfilling than anything that could come after.

I’m not particularly liked or disliked…but it’s junior year in high school and every glance and comment implies love or hate in my mind. I’m a theatre-nerd and a film-kid and my peers see me as “that guy.” Nobody loves me beyond all others, and only a few hate me (but that's a whole new story). Theatre is, oddly enough, a very respected extracurricular activity at my school, and I have a lead in the Senior-produced play. Our color-scheme is sepia, and my blonde hair doesn’t work well with said scheme. Rather than wigging up every night, I choose to use dye to solve the problem (even for my facial hair grown especially for said play). My goth-mentor (also in the play) buys some black hair dye and we sneak into the theatre after everyone has gone home. We go into the theatre restroom and I apply the dye to my hair, eyebrows, and facial hair. Since heat makes dye grab hold quicker I put a wig on over my plastic-bagged head. The wig is from a recent play, The Lark, and belonged to the lead girl (Joan of Arc) who had a boyish haircut. My friend and I spend a solid hour in the mostly dark and totally empty theatre acting out our favorite movie/film scenes on stage. The cleaners show up and stumble upon me, on stage, in a shaggy and choppy wig, pretending I am a Monty Python character who is ‘not dead yet.’ We laugh it off before washing out the dye and standing speechless looking at my now strikingly affected hair, eyebrows, and facial hair.

It’s Thanksgiving time and I am home with the family. I head out on Thanksgiving night with one of my all-time best friends. During high school we loved getting McFlurries from McDonalds. There’s something about that cheap ice cream and chopped up candy at 1am that blows all other desserts out of the water. During high school our favorite was always Butterfinger®. We hit up the local McD’s and through the crappy drive-through speaker requested two Butterfinger® McFlurries. We were promptly informed that the Butterfinger® variety of our favorite tasty treat is no longer an available option. Dejected and broken-hearted, we ordered plain vanilla McFlurries. I had a plan. We hit up an all-night grocery store and bought two Butterfinger® bars and headed back to my house. With a well–implemented meat-mallet and some ingenuity we had ourselves some genuinely delicious Butterfinger® McFlurries (take that McDonalds). The lesson learned: don't accept defeat...an all-night grocery might just have the answer to your dilemma.

I've been getting e-mails from some dating website and thought it was just spam. I decided to unsubscribe from a list I never actually subscribed to when I was brought to a profile page for a fellow "greenmoose." Here's a grab from the page:

And some more:

Now I'm pretty sure nobody would go through these lengths for a joke that only I would see. I guess this Hitler-loving Brit accidentally put my e-mail address in as his own and I'm getting his notifications.

Whatever the case, I guess this proves that not everyone who chooses "greenmoose" as a screen name shares similarities.