Last week while cooped up inside a tiny lakeside cabin, another day of steady rain, I sat facing my daughter, a game of Battleship between us.
She was on an unprecedented streak. Eight wins in a row. After she learned it took a couple of minutes for me to find her ships when they were always in the corner, she became very good.
As we prepared for another sea battle, she peaks over the top of the “screen” and says, “you know why I can confuse you so easily, Dad? Cuz you’re old.”
“Er,” she then says quickly realizing my feelings were likely hurt. “You’re old-er. Like older than Brant and I.”
I think it was supposed to make me feel better. It did, I think.
Sometimes I physically feel old. I’m to the point where if I go play basketball or tennis or softball, I just take Advil before I go because it saves time later.
Sometimes I just feel old. Like this week, when conversation in the office tilted toward the TWA Flight 800 crash and we started talking about where we were when we heard the news. Many of us were in newsrooms, some in the same newsroom we still were in. Then the baby of the news department, a photog, says “I don’t remember because I was six.”
We all hate her now.