Month Seven in the father-son relationship brought a disturbing realization. I woke up in September an old man. Carter made me that way.
First, let me digress.
Speaking as someone who never saw “Porky’s” as a kid, I’ll be the first to admit that Hollywood’s PG version of a teenage lap dance isn’t my movie genre of choice. But like most of my male buddies, I had enough of a crush on the likes of Jennifer Connelly to tolerate a few too many John Hughes films. I wanted to be Ferris Bueller so I could kiss Mia Sara. I paid money to see “The Maid” simply because Ally Sheedy was on the marquee. Meg Ryan. Jodie Foster. Drew Barrymore. Plopping down $5 to $8 to see a pretty face in a mediocre film is a rite for any young man.
As he is wont to do, Carter volunteered to stay with Nana so Mommy and I could go out on the town. For us, that means dinner and a movie. The problem, of course, is that the current fare leaves much to be desired. On this particular date, we were caught somewhere in the no-man’s land between “X-Men” and the Oscar contenders. In other words, “Bring It On.”
I’ll spare you the review and promise not to reveal the ending (which makes “Titantic” look unpredictable). All you need to know is this: Kirsten Dunst … Faith from TV’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer … and some 90-plus minutes of high school cheerleading. Most importantly, my wife was pleading with me to go.
That’s the part that now frightens me. When my wife of eight years has to beg me to go to a movie about high school cheerleaders bouncing in formation, I have to question whether I missed an important mile marker on the road to retirement. When I find myself oblivious to how short the skirts are and obsessing instead about rowdy kids and loud music, it’s time to put out an A.P.B for the inner child.
I’ve scoured for perspective. Carter isn’t having kids of his own. He isn’t skipping seventh period in high school, sassing back or ignoring his chores. He isn’t even crawling yet. But I can’t help but hold him responsible for a rapid aging that is consuming me. If my own father — six years my junior when I was Carter’s age — is synonymous with Red Grange, the Civil War and dinosaurs in my mind, how much will I predate the Cretaceous Period when my boy learns to speak in jibes?
There are more omens. Kids drive like maniacs. They lounge around in malls with nothing to do. They dress like they are unaware belts have been invented. They think Pauly Shore is classic comedy. Their lives have been devoid of 8-Tracks, Pong and DOS. And, oh God, what on earth are they listening to?
Amy Heckerling sums up the torment of this new father in her movie, “Clueless.” During a class discussion debating Haitian refugees awaiting entry into the United States, a young man chimes in with the poser: “The way I feel about the Rolling Stones is the way my kids are going to feel about Nine Inch Nails. So I really shouldn’t torment my mom about it, huh?”
On the cusp of my teenage years, my parents were wrapping LPs of Kenny Rogers and Barry Manilow in Christmas paper about the same time my friends were shocking me with Queen and Billy Joel. I ponder through restless sleep picturing Carter craving the N’Sync anthology and settling for Eric Clapton and the Doobie Brothers. So many important issues and tasks arise while trying to bring up a human being with a modicum of intelligence and some semblance of a moral code, but lately all I can think about is Nine Inch Nails.
I’m not certain if this aging is sudden, or if I’m just getting started. I fear the latter. Today, I only question whether it’s believable that two cheer teams could perform the exact same routine. Tomorrow, I may be obsessing over whether those young kids are taking good care of their teeth.
Either way, I miss the skirts.