I know I am old because I am incapable of letting go of a bad joke. I’m like a bad joke machine. I just keep saying them over and over again until they find their audience: me.
In a group, I was asked how I know so many famous authors. I shared that I’d read 365 books in a year and posted about it on social media. In subsequent years, I did 365 acts of kindness and then 365 hours of volunteer service. Then it just got to be too much and so I stopped. A member of the group asked what my new goal was. “Not being drunk before breakfast,” I joked. “I’m kidding, I don’t eat breakfast,” I quipped. Only my friend Thom got and laughed at the joke. Thanks Thom.
When I try to be serious with people, it is like trying to call a number that has been disconnected. They just don’t get what I am saying. They know abstractly that if their only child died they’d be heartbroken but they can’t possibly understand the magnitude.
I try really hard to relate but it doesn’t work. My attempts are like accidentally sending a colleague a ‘blowing a kiss’ emoji—they are awkward and uncomfortable and, basically, you both want to immediately take them back. We need an option for deleting messages for life. I want to be able to rewind, to have more time, to make fewer mistakes, to appreciate everything more, and to try and save Constance. I can’t just keep saying that to people over and over again and so I make bad jokes.