Wednesday, January 20, 2010
It's better if you don't ask
I just received in the mail a letter written to me from the me of 20 years ago when I was in school. It was one of those check yourself in twenty years to see if you are alive or not and if you are, are you as successful, or as not successful as you dreamed you would be when you were young and beauty-full. We were all young and beautiful, by the way.
This badly mis-spelled letter was sent to me by my former psych teacher that I thought was dead. Apparently not. And if she is reading, I hope all is well and continues to be for many years, and no I am not in a psych ward somewhere, thank you very much.
Regardless and anywhooo, There were several questions I asked myself that I will answer for me here.
I am fine, and thank you.
No, I do not have a jetpac, a robotic companion and I do not eat my dinners in pill form from my view of Hawaiian islands. I still fill up at the seven eleven with Diet Coke and unleaded, not water for the former, and hydrogen for the later. My house does not levitate but sometimes it floats if that is any consolation, and no, I have not found, nor has anyone else discovered the cure for not having a chin – short of surgery which is looking much better than the last time you and you talked.
On an artistic note, I am sorry to report that Madonna was not just a fad, but Knight Ryder does get a second chance and its on the technological equivalent of Beta later this month. And in the 2000's they will combine your love for all things ABBA and the Great White Way in a manner you just will not believe!
Now for the sadness. I am sorry, but you did not marry Sharlene Wells, Miss America 1984. She will never answer your letters, and when you do get the chance to meat her she thinks you're a bit creepy how you keep running your hands through her hair. She is however a face book friend. I'll explain later.
Amazingly folks, I don't think my vision of the future was too far off all things considering, excepting that I am over the 190 pound limit of which I swore I would only be if I could not muster up the nerve to throw myself in front of a quickly moving 18 wheeler convoy like in the song. Or by letting an alien-egg-crab-thing attach itself to my skull to implant a monster that erupts in three days to put an end to my suffering.
Some good news, though. While is depressingly true that I can not still fit into my college swim team speedo, I am not still wearing it to sit in the hot tub at the community rec center. My wife actually placed both my speedo and her wedding dress into a time capsule in case we find a odd shaped brass lamp and end up needing a visual point of reference.
Sadly, I am not a Broadway star. My kids (your kids too, buddy) won't let me sing within earshot of anyone they know. But I know a few Broadway folk from my school and one of them is not Craig Alan Bean! Yesssss! But he is the Governor of one of the embarrassing states. Dang!
And my aunt never did let me have her old car, but it just didn't matter like it used to 'cause Pintos are not what I once thought they were.
Other than that, and that I am still on the wagon, I'm just doing great.