All Grown Up

Every now and then I find subtle reminders that I am, without a doubt, a grown up.  Sometimes it’s really obvious stuff, like when I had a new ID card made at work and my photo revealed that I no longer have a receding hairline, rather I am bald.  I am bald like Uncle Bob.  Also, it turns out that I am bright yellow, but I think that might be a printer issue.

It’s not always the deterioration of my body that reminds me that I am careening full-speed toward high-waisted pants (forgive me if I’m starting to sound like Dave Barry).  Sometimes it’s little things, like corncob holders.  I own several of them.  The other night we sat down to a meal which consisted of a barbecued slab of meat, a salad and corn on the cob with little holders.  I am my parents.  I felt compelled during the meal to go grab a plastic cup or rip a paper towel in half to use as a napkin just to have some evidence at the table that plucky youngsters were eating here, but to no avail.  Kenny, the corncob holders and I ate dinner and then scurried off to the family room to watch 60 Minutes.

  

On a happier note, I was excited to notice that Kenny and I both eat corn in the proper “typewriter” fashion.  I attempted to eat the second piece in the ill-mannered “around the world” style but it made the corn taste like goat blood.  Ding.