How a First Grader Gut Punched Me

And Other Reminders That I’m Fifty-fucking-four.

Please tap the {{heart}} button, which helps new readers find I Already Spent the $200

***

The other morning I woke up feeling like a truck hit me. Sore as hell, I thought, Jesus Christ, I overdid it again. That’s when I remembered: I hardly did anything. The previous day was a Sunday. We didn’t do shit. This is just me now. I’m fifty-fucking-four, and this is what waking up feels like from here on out. Well, no, it probably actually gets worse.

I forget my age all the time. I married a woman who’s eleven years younger than me and looks like she could still model.¹ We have a five-year-old and a seven-year-old. And because my wife is who she is and our kids are young, we’re always hanging around beautiful young families. Playdates, parties, parks — wherever we are, it’s noisy, chaotic, and everyone’s quietly wondering who the old Asian man is.

But, you know, I don’t actually have to look at me, so in my head it’s like YAY we’re all young and beautiful! Every single one of us! Right?

I got a wake-up call a few months ago while volunteering at my daughter Sasha’s elementary school. She goes to a great charter school that has free tuition, but every family has to volunteer for twelve total hours in some capacity. I decided to go ahead and do Watch D.O.G.S., which is basically “Dad shows up and does the shit the staff doesn’t want to.” Help with car lines, clean the cafeteria, fill the teachers’ whiskey flasks, etc.

One of the assignments was chaperoning recess for Sasha’s class. She’s still at the age where seeing her dad is exciting, instead of the horrific embarrassment it’ll be when she’s in middle school. So she stuck to me, proudly showing me off to her friends. That’s when one of them looked at me and said:

“You look like Sasha’s grandpa.”

You know that thing where on the outside you’re pleasantly laughing but on the inside you kinda sorta want to choke a first grader? That’s more or less what I did. But, I mean, how could I blame him? My hair’s still more pepper than salt, but my beard’s pure Kenny Rogers. (Mid-80s Kenny, not fried-chicken Kenny. Or, uh, dead Kenny.) I probably made an old man noise when I sat at the playground bench. If I’m being honest, the only difference between me and a real grandpa is that I’m still legally required to raise my own kids.

She still loves me enough to eat with me in the cafeteria.

Last night we went back to that school for open house for the new year. The place was jam packed with kids and their parents, who as far as I was concerned, all looked like they just graduated college. Not a single gray hair in sight. I had to have been the oldest person in that building. Like, maybe in its entire history.

You know what? I don’t care. I still like what I see in the mirror, I’m a damn good father, and my daughters will actually sing Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Going to Take It” out loud with me in the minivan. I’d like to see any of these Millennial or Gen Z parents pull THAT off. They probably think Ozzy Osbourne is a Harry Potter character.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to bed. My back hurts.

~JCS

Again, if you enjoyed this, please tap the {{heart}} button, which helps new readers find I Already Spent the $200

1. She was a fashion model in New York City when we met. This footnote is completely unnecessary, but when I married her I pretty much decided I would brag about her for the rest of my life. If you don’t like it, feel free to piss off.