Someday, I'll be Crotchety too

There is a reality out there with which one must come to grips. There are certain limitations to what each of us can achieve. For 36 year old 5' 11" white guys with skinny legs and the top speed of a tree sloth (a random example of course), becoming the starting center for the Phoenix Suns is not realistically in their grasp. Boys probably won't get pregnant in any of our lifetimes, and Goldschmidt's Taste of the South Real Pit BBQ may not make it off the ground in Mississippi. These are limitations that we are forced to deal with, embrace and move on. I am comfortable with that and work through my own particular limitations (though none of the above apply to me directly).
One thing that I refuse to let die is my dream to one day be referred to as "Crotchety." Listen, I can be an ornery son of a bitch. I can be downright mean, angry, rude, miserable or any of a thousand other adjectives in the same genre. But crotchety is reserved for cranky old men (and even in my advanced years, I have not reached that plateau--hell, even my father is a few years shy of being eligible for crotchety). The reason I bring this up is that I find it to be a remarkably descriptive and poignant word.
Each of you reading this (probably could have said both of you and included myself, but we'll stick to each of you in case somebody out there is still tuning in to this horror show of a blog) can close your eyes, say the word crotchety (which I am probably spelling wrong this entire posting, but will continue to do so unabashed) and you can visualize a person who fits this description. Go ahead--try it. . . . . Got the visual?

Now tell me the truth, do any of you have a 25 year-old blonde in your mind right now? Well, that really is an unfair question to most of my friends. Let's try again--do any of you envision a college student, or a linebacker, or your Grandmother, even? Probably not. Crotchety is reserved for a select group of men over the age of 75 who are just freaking miserable. Nothing can make them happy, nothing can deter them from their desire to suck the life out of everybody they come across, nothing can escape the black hole that comes in a 10 mile radius of their misery.
I bring this all up, because I have enveloped my life with Crotchety old bastards. I work in a country club where the average age is somewhere north of a 10 handicap (82 for you non-golfing types). We have lost four members in the past two weeks, and they continue to drop. The problem is that it is the sweet, nice ones who we keep losing, the Crotchety sons of bitches aren''t going anywhere. They have no desire to exit stage left--their black existence just continues to smother everybody who catches a whiff of their Old Spice.
Let me give you an example. It is hard to choose from so many viable candidates, but let's just begin today with Dr. Fieldman, one of my all time favorites. No, that has to be another time, let's talk instead about Dr. Sisk today. About two months ago, I was playing a wonderful round of golf with my cousin Peter at the Club (I say wonderful when referring to the weather, the pristine nature of the course, the company, etc.--we stunk up the scorecard). After the round, I took Peter to eat in my restaurant and we sat out on the patio, soaking up the sunshine, enjoying the wind swept rustling of the Texas Sage and Mesquite, and the view overlooking the 18th green on the South Course over the fairways and up to the rocky, hilly landscape that is among the most beautiful in all of Arizona. While sitting outside on this absolutely perfect day, a member whom I had not had the pleasure of meeting yet, came out to the patio from his table inside the restaurant to seek me out.

"Are you Josh?" he asked
"Well, yes I am," I replied, "It's very nice to meet you, this is my cous---"
"Why did you take the Cole Slaw off the menu?"
"Um. the cole slaw?"
"Yeah. There needs to be cole slaw on the menu."
"Well, Dr. Sisk, we would be more than happy to get you cole slaw. We, of course have it, but we didn't want to fill the menu with 15 side items. Can I get you some."
"No--they got me cole slaw. That isn't the point--it needs to be on the menu."
"It does."
"Yes, it does. How will anybody know they can get cole slaw if it isn't on the menu? You need to reprint the menu and make sure to put it on there."
"Um, when we do the next printing, I will be happy to include cole slaw on the menu for you. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Sisk."

He never introduced himself, never thanked me, never spoke to or acknowledged my cousin and never thought twice about interrupting my lunch. It was pure unabashed crotchety genius, and just a sign of things to come. Every interaction with him has been equally inane and free of any and all courtesy associated with general human conversation. Hell, my three year old would be embarrassed to talk to somebody like that, but Sisk knows of no other way. Just a thin slice of my life right there.
Now many of you who have known me for a while know that I don't want to live a day past 60. I have been saying this since I was 15, and I have been treating my liver, my brain cells and my arteries like hell for the last 20+ years just to make certain I drop dead November 1, 2029--mark your calendars now. But I have an inspiration to make it to the point that I too can be crotchety someday. There is a certain beauty in the ability of certain individuals to be so talented in one area. It can't be something that just suddenly comes to you--like anything worth having, being crotchety takes focus, effort and a desire to have a profound impact on everybody that comes into your world. I have seen my destiny. Every day here, I watch, I learn, I soak in their brilliance. They are masters in this world of which I am only beginning to scratch the surface. Maybe if I really start working on it now, I can be the youngest man ever to be called Crotchety. Please don't question my resolve, we all have to have our dreams.