Time passes, the world keeps spinning, and people get older. But aside from a few new aches and pains, the years can fly by and it can pretty much feel like nothing has changed. We may feel like that same 20 year old in our minds, but before we know it, we’re staring down the barrel at 50 and getting sir’d and maam’d by a bunch of young punks who never knew the heartbreak of running out of hours on an AOL cd. It’s little moments like these that tend to reveal the passage of time, more so than any birthday or major milestone. Here are ten things that have served as recent reminders to us that we’re inching ever closer toward death’s door:
Caught myself forgetting 9/11. I know, I know. But I mean shit, it was 20 years ago now and so much other terrible stuff has happened since. We’re basically averaging a 9/11 a day during this pandemmy. Plus, I’ve never even been to New York.
The Olsen Twins aren’t hot anymore. AND THEY’RE HOW OLD?! Yikes.
There are 21-year-olds that were born after Y2K! And they just hang out at the end of the bar and they won’t even play darts with me or shoot the shit about the ball game. They’ve never even heard of Dave Matthews Band and don’t seem impressed when I try to stream “Ants Go Marching” on my phone.
The Karate Kid is now some 46 year old woman named Hilary Swank. Don’t get me wrong. I think trans rights are human rights and I’ve got no beef with Daniel-san switching sides and fighting in the ladies bracket. It’s just that such an incredible journey of self-discovery like this takes time and when I think about how long it must have taken for that little Jersey boy to transition fully into an Oscar-winning hick from Nebraska by way of the San Fernando Valley, the years just come flooding back.
Jennifer Love Hewitt has been dead for almost 8 years. It still feels like yesterday that we all watched with bated breath as she got pulled, alive and screaming, into that escalator. Swallowed alive on live television, her promising career shredded by the jagged teeth of those man-eating moving stairs. Rest in peace, fair maiden. For the day that we meet again in heaven, I can’t hardly wait.
My granddaughter just finished her Master’s degree in healthcare management and I’ve told all my friends in the nursing home.
I’ve got osteoporosis and been diagnosed with dementia. My bones are so brittle that even a gentle breeze could knock me over and shatter me into pieces. I try to remember my granddaughter’s name, you know the one in health management, but they keep telling me that my only grandchild is a boy and he’s a bridge inspector two towns over. I’m so weak and feeble and confused that I just shuffle around the grocery store, stooped over, praying to what's his name to put me out of my misery.
The doctor has pronounced me dead and my family is crying and hugging each other. They’re sad, but also relieved because they knew how much I had been suffering these last few years. I’m no longer in pain. I’m finally at peace and reunited with my sweet Abilene.
They’re lowering me into the ground and have started shoveling dirt onto my casket.
A group of goth teens have taken to using my headstone as a toilet before and after they hold their graveyard seance sex orgies. Their steamy hot streams splash against the cold engraved stone and the smoke rises like the souls of the spirits they’ve just summoned. Yessir, the times may change, but you can always count on kids to be kids!
