For reasons too long to explain, I attended a presentation of a social worker this week. I hate stereotypes. I hate stigmatizing people: I know countless fab, great, nice, funny, enjoyable, intelligent, sensible social workers. I love and adore social workers. But this one got me all Jeremy Clarkson in seconds.
That image of the dope smoking dude, slightly ahead of himself, with a mind that rather would be doing yoga on top of an Indian mist wrapped mountain? The one who thinks internet is a disease, flying a crime, and electricity something we need to give back to the Gods soonest? The one without a car, with woolen socks, a wardrobe that closed permanently its doors in 1973, and is slightly smelling of patchouli? That was him. Of all people.
And, on slide 22. The horror: Middle Aged People (40 – 65). Excuse me? Here I am, at 42: washed, brushed and vaccinated. In the Prime of my Life. Juggling neurons with Nobel Prize winning ease, driving cars that are so fast the law doesn’t even have licenses for them, cumulating jetlag, airports and time differences, swapping away short nights like Bruce Lee did with annoying street fighters. But slide 22 of Mr. Social says I’m middle aged.
I hear you Jeremy Clarkson. I’ll join your club: the angry old man club. If Social Workers label me middle aged, the world is doomed. 40 is the new 20! Darn! People like me make the world go round. And round. And then… some!
Feel the blood boiling, the rage fuming in this aging temple of a body. Beware, you young yoga freaks, socially engaged meditators. I’ll room the streets. I fight dirty. I can. I have a 20 year old head start. I’ll ridicule your slide 22. I’ll quote Mr.T, icon of my generation: “I pity the fool….”