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I sit here on a Saturday morning ignoring the “Performance Issues Detected” greeting from my anti-virus software.
Tonka sits at my left, hoping for bites of bacon. He hasn’t been introduced to the magic of the lovingly slathered Everything bagel that interrupts my stream of conscious, conscience, and consciousness.
Speaking of interrupted streams, recently my immediate family and I found ourselves impatiently waiting for the arrival of Mexican cuisine at a moderately priced eatery.
My daughter sat next to me waiting for her street tacos (extra asphalt), and my grandson sat across the table consuming complimentary tortillas between strategic dips of the chip.
As an embryologist, Juniorette works with test-tube babies. In essence, she helps to get people pregnant.
It should be noted that the arrival of Juniorette and her older brother (Junior) were the product of a fun and inexpensive hobby which had the potential to get out of hand. Test tubes and mad science weren’t needed.
Juniorette’s been busy at work lately. The volume of babies made last quarter was lower than expected. Extra hours are now being put in this quarter to make up for the deficit.
Since the verbal door had been opened, it was time for me to step through with a clever follow-up question designed to generate a chuckle from my son, a roll of the eyes in my daughter-in-law, a scoff from Wifey, and a glare from Juniorette.
My grandson would continue to dip his chips.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense for a fraternity clinic to measure its fiscal year in trimesters instead of quarters?”
Sure the door had been opened, but I walked on the wrong side of the hinge right into a clean piece of glass.
“Fraternity clinic?” Junior was the first one to point out my stumble, and totally skipped on the expected chuckle.
After taking a moment to process what I just said, I corrected my question.
“Oh right. Fraternity clinics count their fiscal years in semesters. What about fertility clinics?”
Irregardlessly, the look of derision from Juniorette was already in place, so that fumble will be counted as a magnificent recovery.
Now that I’ve broken the ice, let’s get to the real subject of today’s foray into verbal brilliance.
Ten years ago I wrote a series of posts in the waning years of my forties as I prepared for a new decade of existence.
Now, eight years into what has been a remarkable time of my life, I’ve made a sad realization.
I’ve lost a skill.
Make no mistake. The skill was stupid and useless when I had it, and never once brought any iota of success in either my professional or personal life.
It was a skill that several of my Generation X contemporaries developed in the mid-80’s when we were teenagers.
Now you’re probably thinking I’ve forgotten how to solve a Rubik’s Cube.
At least if you weren’t, you are now.
To which, I say “No”.
I can still solve those things.
What I can’t do anymore is reproduce a laugh that sounds like I’m experiencing a sucking chest wound.
Forty-somethin’ years ago there was a movie featuring a bunch of nerds who got their revenge on the jocks. They out-belched them, they won the battle of the bands, and seduced one of their girlfriends. All the while, they laughed as if they were trying to recover from having the wind knocked out of them.
Back then I could replicate that laugh with incredible accuracy.
A few days ago, I tried to replicate that laugh with the same precision I did back then. My throat closed up and the nerd laugh was replaced with a wheeze and a cough.
Now just how in tarnation do you lose a skill like that?
Are there other stupid and useless skills I had back then that I don’t have today?
Okay I just checked, and the answer is “No”. I was able to crack my knuckles. Granted it hurts more than it used to, but all is well otherwise.
So here’s the real problem.
I once maintained a membership amongst an elite group of people who could execute a unique and irritating sound by inhaling and laughing at the same time.
Why does it bother me all these years later that I no longer qualify to be in that fertility?
