At some point in my life, more than a few people suggested that I was an introvert. I don’t remember exactly when it was, but it was around the time that everyone started getting caught up in psychology, Rorschach tests, and the color of their parachutes. None of the people who diagnosed me was licensed to practice psychology, or even yoga, but that’s what they said and I believed them.
 
To be fair, I wasn’t exactly the life of the party. I’d been sick as a kid, missing out on those socialization skills you pick up in adolescence, and I was more interested in schoolwork than extra-curriculars. When people told me I was hard-wired that way, it seemed to fit. Even better, it gave me a reason to conclude I couldn’t change and didn’t need to try.
 
So I lived my life as an introvert, with solitary hobbies like bike riding, photography, and coin collecting. Later, when I was around 45, I took a Meyers-Briggs test and the results were pretty shocking. According to the test, I wasn’t actually an introvert. In fact, the test concluded that I was comfortable across a broad range from Intro- to Extro- on the -Vert Continuum.
 
As a result, my filter began to change and I saw the world, including myself, just a bit differently. Slowly, over many years, I became more outgoing, more sociable, more comfortable with strangers. I’m okay with traveling or dining alone and I still enjoy biking and photography, but I would rather be paired up with somebody, or somebodies, to share the experience.
 
The teenage me would be surprised to see how much I enjoy being with people, engaging with them, entertaining them, and learning from them. Or, maybe, the teenage me would remember the sadness of being alone far too much.
 
Because, in fact, I was sad to be alone as a teen and I was mistaken in my belief that sadness was the inevitable companion of introverts. Instead, it was the inevitable result of a faulty diagnosis. I simply accepted what other people said about me and followed their prescription to guide much of my life.
 
I didn’t realize it at the time, but it’s pretty common for people to shove you into a box and put a label on it, even though they aren’t going to move into that box with you or help you to work your way out of it. And if they make the wrong diagnosis, they’ll give you an ailment you didn’t have already, without offering a cure.
 
I can’t go back, of course, and my regret is softened by the knowledge that painful experiences teach us how to cope later in life. The people who put me in the wrong box when I was younger did me no favor, but they did give me an insight I can pass on to another generation. I’m not exactly gleeful for the lesson, but perhaps someone can benefit from my education.
 
Now that I’m not afraid of people any more, I’m happy to invite you to join the party by clicking here to subscribe to Dad Writes.
 
 

When you’re part of a persecuted minority, even the most innocent moments of your day can be transformed into unbearable ridicule and oppression. Trust me, on this, because I am the victim here. Even worse, I became a victim simply by surviving long enough to be old enough to be mocked...simply for being old.

We don't need AARP. We need a Senescence Liberation Front.

Old farts simply can’t get a break, even when we’re doing the exact same thing as Gen Z or X or W. If somebody in her 20s snags a two-for-one deal on an app, it’s a BOGO and everyone applauds. If I do the same thing, but with a coupon I got in the mail, it’s a senior discount and everyone smirks.

If some young adult goes out for a drink at 5:00 p.m., she’s enjoying cocktail hour. If she orders some chicken wings with her drink, she’s enjoying happy hour. And if she has a margarita and nachos, Jimmy Buffett might write a song about her.

Sounds perfectly innocent, but it’s not an experience I can share. If I go to the same place at the same time, I’m absolutely not cool and hip and enjoying happy hour. I’m old and tired and I’m settling in for the Early Bird Special. The mockery is so painful that I am weeping as I type this.

The list of slights can seem endless by now, yet it continues to grow every minute. If I wear leggings under my jeans, it’s long underwear, but if some 30-something does it, it’s a base layer.  If I use a device to amplify sound, they’re hearing aids, but if a younger person does it, they’re ear buds or, even cooler, Air Pods.

If someone in his 30s embraces the traditions of his youth, he’s an O.G. If someone in her ’60s does it, she’s an O.F. (Original Gangster versus Old Fart, for anyone requiring translation here.)

Speaking of the traditions from our youth, why is it living in the past when I recall the old days, but it’s cool to hear what happened, “Back in the Day…” from someone who was wearing braces until two years ago?

How can it be retro and hip for some fashionista to wear bell-bottom pants, but I get mocked for continuing to wear the original pair I bought 50 years ago?

Doesn’t that make me the real O.G. here?

If I write a check to charity, I’m taking the easy route of paying instead of doing. But if some TackyTocker dumps ice water on his head and posts a video, he’s being an ally. Even better, he’ll get all kinds of likes even if he never writes a check. Okay, he was never going to write a check because he only uses Venmo, but you get the point.

After a lifetime at the forefront of the Patriarchy, I suddenly know what it’s like to be part of a marginalized minority, and it’s not okay, Boomers.  We didn’t survive the greatest economic expansion in world history and take all the good jobs and fast cars and destroy the environment and cultivate the lifestyles that created more than 142 new medical specialties just to be treated like dirt in our senescence.

No way. So we’re putting you all on notice, all you young punks in your 20s and 30s and mid-50s. Don’t ever cross us, don’t even think about it, or we’ll cancel you so fast you’ll cease to exist anywhere. We’ll rain the hell of social media scorn on you so hard that you’ll be afraid to show your face in your own households. We’ll tear you a new one and then tear it out and tear you another one.

Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. As soon as we figure out how to use this internet thing.

We’re also planning to cancel anyone who doesn’t click here to subscribe to Dad Writes, so don’t pretend you weren’t warned…

I think I’ve mentioned more than once that I have a fuzzy memory, or maybe I only meant to mention it and it slipped my mind.

The past 102 years have been a blur for me, as evidenced by my inability to remember anyone at my high school reunion or my college reunion or the receiving line at my wedding. Somehow, I can remember a handful of formulas from chemistry class, my phone number from 60 years ago, the year King Kanye signed the Magna Carta and, of course, advertising jingles.

Everything else? Good luck.  

I can remember that I saw a movie, but not what it was about, and I can remember that I read a book, but not what it was about. The only thing I can absolutely remember is how to do the Hokey Pokey, because that IS what it’s all about.

There’s a sadness to this hazy recollection. People will remember great times and share details with each other and I just smile as if I was actually there, which I was, or so they tell me. I’ll run into someone at an event and they’ll ask a million questions about my wife, my kids, my hobbies, how I got that stain out of my shirt after our last meeting…and all I can think is that I might have met them once.

Sometimes, after a great evening with new acquaintances, I will warn them that I will absolutely not remember them the next time we see each other. It’s embarrassing, but it’s one more fun fact for them to remember about me while I forget everything about them.

Still, if you look hard enough, you can find an upside to anything.

It turns out that I am very bad at holding a grudge. I try. Really, I do, but it all gets blurry and I can’t remember who started it or who said what or why I’m ticked off, anyway. My circle of friends is probably five or six times as large as it would be if I could remember how terrible all these people are and how much I hate them.

I almost never miss an appointment, which might seem counterintuitive, but it works. Since I know I’m going to forget half the things I promised to do, I keep a very thorough to-do list and check it about 20 times a day.

I never say anything embarrassing to people, because I always forget which ones are on drugs and which ones have been indicted and which ones are having sex with goats. Or maybe it’s chickens. I forget. But the good thing about forgetting is that I can't spill the beans if I don't remember what kind of beans they are. I still say lots of stupid stuff to people, but much, much less than I would if I could remember anything about them.

People think I’m really interested in whatever they have to say, even if it’s an old story they’ve told me a million times. I give everyone the impression I’m savoring their story as if it was the first time, mostly because I think I am hearing their story for the first time.

I’m much calmer than I used to be, and I sleep better, too. When you can’t remember all the bills you owe and how many people are out to get you, the dark isn’t nearly as scary.

Beyond calm, I think I’m actually happier. Life is much more pleasant when you’ve unburdened yourself of the slings and arrows, the resentments and regrets. I really think forgetfulness, intended or otherwise, can add measurably to our joy in life.

Now, if only I can remember to post this message, the rest of you could be happier too.

Of course, both of us would be immeasurably happier if you’d click here to subscribe to Dad Writes. Do it now, before you forget.
 
 
 
 

If you’re lucky, you run out of things to teach your children. If you’re lucky, you wake up one day and recognize that there are at least a few areas where they have surpassed you, and that is quite all right.

It could be dealing with extended family or maintaining friendships, work-life balance or cooking, sales or Wordle…slowly the kids turn into adults and the relationships shift. If you’re lucky, you end up in a ton of peer-to-peer conversations, where you’re sharing ideas instead of imparting wisdom.

If you’re lucky.

The idea of my kids surpassing me isn’t new. I recall thinking about it one afternoon as I was clearing the set from a theater after one of their shows. I walked out on the stage, looked across at the empty seats, and realized that my kids would be more comfortable dealing with people, more competent in a crowd, and just a bit less fearful than I was, because they put themselves out on a stage to perform in front of strangers. I knew they already had a power I would never have, or never have in as great an abundance as my teen-aged daughters.

If you’re lucky, you can watch your kids—I shouldn’t call them kids anymore since they have kids of their own—as they build a life and create a home and plot their own journeys. You can hope they learned something from watching you, paying attention to your mistakes and your successes.

You can hope they’ll avoid your mistakes, but you cannot hope for them to replicate your successes, because their journey is all about their successes now. Consciously or not, they’ve sifted through their memories and all the dinner-table conversations and set their own priorities for their lives, so any resemblance to your journey is curated, not ordained.

I like spending time with people who are younger than I am, gaining new ideas and varied perspectives about the world. I enjoy the opportunity to update my thinking, master the slang, and generally be much cooler than all the other oldsters I deal with the rest of the day. My favorite companions are a couple of women who are very smart and likable adults, generous hosts, and very open to extended conversations. Yes, I fed them and clothed them and dealt with all their nonsense for 20 years, but that was then and this is now.

If you’re lucky, you can step back one day and take a fresh look at your children. You can see them as they are now, ignoring the path that brought them there, and recognize these are adults you would like to know today. These are adults who are interesting and smart and accomplished and level-headed and a joy to be with. These are adults you can debate ideas with and share experiences with and respect as they forge their own paths.

If you’re lucky.

Some days, we just feel really grateful over at Dad Writes and we always feel very, very grateful when someone clicks here to subscribe.

Am I better off because people aren’t lying to me anymore, and why do the worst people in my life have the best stories? Let’s take a random walk through Meyers-Briggs, Wordle and the sexual revolution…

1. Yes, we all know that more than one million people died, life expectancy in the United States fell for two years in a row, students fell behind in their education, supply chains collapsed, the deficit soared, businesses scammed $billions from the government, and polarization only increased. Even worse, it’s almost impossible now to find a restaurant that will give you a menu instead of insisting that you scan their QR code. If I ever lose my phone, I’ll starve.
2. Looking back on my life, my biggest regret is that I missed out on the sexual revolution by about two years. It’s too bad, since I was actually willing to volunteer for that one.
3. I used to hate it when I would call a cab and then nobody showed up and the dispatcher would insist the driver would be there in a minute when they were really miles away. Thankfully, I don’t need to deal with those lying bastards anymore. Now it’s my app that insists they’ll be there in a minute while I can see—in real time—that they are miles away. I love progress.
4. Speaking of progress, have you noticed that when you go somewhere, nobody actually works for the place you’re visiting. There’s a franchisor’s name on the door, but it’s owned by another company, managed by a third, the employees are leased from a fourth, and no one is in charge of any of it. And you’ll be harangued a million times by a fifth company to review it, because your opinion is very important to all of them.
5. I know some really nice, decent, law-abiding people who are incredibly boring, while some of the biggest louses in my social circle have amazing and entertaining stories about the times they got caught, the near misses when they didn’t, and their plans for revenge. Life is so unfair.
6. After everyone on Twitter complained about censorship and Elon Musk announced he would buy the company and solve the problem, I decided to take a look. Every day, Jim Jordan complains about Joe Biden, Chuck Grassley posts a picture of himself in a corn field, The Lincoln Project posts a story mocking Donald Trump, and some guy announces that it isn’t Ted Danson’s birthday. It’s incredibly repetitive, boring and predictable, but somehow I’ve gotten hooked on this thing. It’s like Groundhog Day, and I keep looking to see if someone will say something they didn’t say yesterday and the day before and the day before…
   
7. My daughter talked me into taking a personality test the other day and I’m glad she did. First, it turns out that I actually have a personality, which has sometimes been questioned by those who know me best. Second, and even more remarkable, my personality seems to have improved since I took the same test a couple of decades ago. I had always thought this stuff was fixed, but it turns out you actually can grow as you age. Maybe things really do get better when the kids move out, the mortgage gets paid and you don’t have to deal with cranky clients.
8. One of these days, The New York Times is going to screw up the whole thing by adding a timer to Wordle, or maybe they’ll put it behind their paywall. Whatever happens, we all know it’s only a matter of time before someone decides to tweak the model and ruin the fun for everyone else. That’s because the most contradictory phrase in American business is new and improved. Also, tomorrow’s word will be “zippy.”

 
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I know a guy who had a very troubled life when he was a kid. It was the kind of life that could have turned him into a bitter and vengeful individual, except that he made the decision to change the course of his journey and pass up the opportunity to infect his kids.

Actually, I know a few guys like that, along with quite a few more who are repeating the destructive patterns of their childhood homes. That’s what they know, they think they turned out just fine, and there’s no compelling need to switch gears.

In every family, in every home, the time-honored processes repeat until someone decides to break the chain. We’re all victims of our pasts until, maybe, one day, we’re not. One day, somebody decides that the past isn’t prologue, that “it's just the way our family is...,” is a poor excuse for doing the wrong thing again and again.

I encountered the permutations in my own family as we dove into some ancestry investigations over the past couple of years. As with all family trees, mine has a few diseased roots. We all want to discover that our ancestors slew dragons and cured diseases, but sometimes we’re disappointed to learn that we have more crooks than champions along the line. Sometimes, we look at some of our forebears and we’re very, very grateful that they didn’t have more kids.

Every family has its black sheep, but I’m more intrigued by the white sheep, the ones who changed the family’s arc for the better. We all learn how to become parents by watching our parents and we all learn how to live our lives by our families’ model. Most of the time, nothing is so toxic that we’re repulsed by it, and sometimes the toxic stuff is the only thing we know.

And then there are the unsung heroes on the family tree, the people who decide enough is enough and it’s absolutely not good enough for the next generation. They’re largely invisible, because doing good doesn’t generate much of a splash, but you can see the inflection points through the lens of time. Look back a few generations and you’ll find the person who flipped the script, who jettisoned the scourge and created a new model for an enlightened family.

Whatever our situations today, we can be pretty sure there were twists and turns along the way. A good family turned bad, a young person was led astray, a single malevolent parent created a multi-generational pandemic…until somebody broke the spell.

The people who set the earth back on its foundation can seem pretty regular, exceedingly normal, in everyday settings. You’d never suspect their heroism, because they aren’t looking for the spotlight. Instead, they’re quietly and steadily moving the needle toward sunlight, leaving the dark side behind. Maybe they deserve more recognition, or at least a clever T-shirt. The world would be a helluva lot worse without them.

If you look through your family and you can’t find the person who broke the chain, maybe this is a good time to be a hero. Just a thought.

And here's another thought...click here to subscribe to Dad Writes.