Crazy Days, Lazy Nights

The old adage states that you’re only as old as you feel. That’s a great mantra and definitely words to live by. However, I still haven’t read anything that includes the post-30s addendum clause “...or as otherwise dictated by your immediate surroundings”. Case in point, a recent vacation with the wife and kids to Myrtle Beach where I received that cold splash of geriatric reality. Twice.

We arrived at night in the middle of “Bike Week”. At a stoplight, we’re surrounded on all sides by deafening, high-performance motorcycles. Completely encompassed amidst the modern epitome of masculinity. Then there’s me, in a minivan with the family…and a wagon strapped to the roof. To say that we were the sore thumb is an understatement. However, in a vaguely reminiscent pre-30s demeanor that I once possessed, I glanced around and gave a couple of guys the customary male “chin nod”. Much to my surprise, there was no snickering. More dumbfounded shock than anything else. I turned toward my wife and stated proudly in my best sniffling, Don Knotts impression, “yep, they’re jealous.”

The reality is that twenty years ago, I was one of those guys. Out all night, cruising the Strand in search of bedlam, without a care in the world. A youth lost on borrowed time. These days, you’re more likely to find me body-surfing with my kids instead of planning the evening out. However, sitting at that stoplight, I also found myself looking at my two daughters and contemplating what would happen if they ever decided to bring home one of those guys. Someone like…well, me. Sigh. “Alas poor Yorick, I knew him…” All-too-well.

Later in the week, we drove past the house that my friends and I had rented for our high school senior graduation week. The week where fifteen of those guys drove down to Myrtle Beach with grand aspirations of utter lawlessness and rampant hooliganism. My Mustang SVO loaded down with friends, guitars, just enough food to sustain an existence, and just enough beverage to humiliate a German Oktoberfest. A week of blowing off steam before moving on to college or jobs. We had even adopted a song that week to commemorate the lifestyle. “Lazy Days, Crazy Nights” by the ‘80s band Tesla. “I love those lazy days and crazy nights; It’s my way, it’s my life; I’m doing fine right here on borrowed time.”

Let’s fast forward twenty years. Replace my beloved SVO with a minivan, the cases of libation with bags of children’s beach toys, and my guitars with that eye-sore strapped to the roof. Furthermore, let’s replace those friends that yelled from the backseat every time that we passed a female with my children doing the same every time that we pass a miniature golf course. Thought I saw all of that coming? Back then, I might have been arrested for choking a fortune-teller.

Honestly though, I can’t think of a more satisfying outcome. Having a family and being a dad to bouncing, giggling kids will do that. Mentally, I’m still just as young at heart and still feed that sense of adolescent invincibility with occasional stupidity. However, those lazy days and crazy nights have transformed themselves into the wonderfully crazy days of my wife and I chasing our kids around and the lazy nights of collapsing on the couch afterwards. There’s a real sense of accomplishment there for me.

Heading home, I pulled that song up on the iPod for amusement’s sake. After hearing those apt lyrics and cracking a reminiscent smile, I promptly turned the Backyardigans CD on to pacify the restless kids in the backseat. I even found myself humming along. So, to my immediate surroundings, you can keep your bikes and your borrowed time. I’m taking my wagon...and going home. It’s my way, it’s my life.

 - Originally published in Fluvanna Review July 15 2010