Mid-morning crisis

How did I get to this point? It's 1130am on a Saturday, I'm sitting in a crowded room, picking fragments of half-chewed cookie from my face and my shirt. I look down at the shirt, and on it is a familiar cartoon character from the 70's. The rest of the people at my table are belly-laughing. The sight of other people laughing is enough to make me laugh. Have I been transported back to my days as a toddler? Am I in a high chair, eating my first baked treat? I guess for me to understand why I'm in this predicament, I'll have to retrace my steps and start at the beginning.

One of the things I enjoy doing is going out to breakfast on Saturday mornings. It's something I've always looked forward to, and something I'd like to continue doing for many years to come; even into my golden years.

As I inch closer to my 35th birthday, I understand that it's a milestone of sorts. First of all, in three weeks, I'll be legally able to run for president. I don't plan on throwing my hat in the ring, but it's nice to know I'll have that option. At 35, I'll also become a father for the first time. Those are two huge positives. There are, however, some negative feelings for me considering I'll be closer to 40 than 30. I don't have the money to go out and buy a corvette, but I heard that helps. In the meantime, I can only go by the mantra that you're only as old as you feel, and try to live that way.

I felt nice and young this past Saturday. My wife's sister and a friend were visiting to attend some concerts at Sunfest. They have both just completed their first year at college and, all weekend long, I was reminded what it felt like to be a college student, when concerts and Saturday morning breakfasts in a strange town were the norm. As I pulled on my Speed Racer retro t-shirt and a baseball cap and looked forward to a western omelette and another concert late in the day, I felt like a college student again, if only for a short time.

Saturday breakfasts in South Florida can be tricky. Sometimes, we have to deal with long waits. Other times, the service is less than adequate. Every time, we have to dodge elderly folks as they wander aimlessly in and out of our personal space with no regard for anybody too young to remember the Depression.

We were seated relatively quickly, and it was immediately clear that our waitress was having a bad day. She seemed slightly annoyed that we weren't ready to order the first time she asked. She gave us that look; that look that says "It's breakfast dummies... It's the same menu everywhere for breakfast. Eggs, pancakes, french toast... Why would you even need to look at the menu." In another life, I was a waiter at a country club and often had to work breakfast. I understood, so I didn't let it bother me that our server was less than cordial.

Feeling young and a little saucy, I took advantage of Mrs. Undaground's new willingness to order more stuff, since we're eating for three. In addition to the omelette, we enjoyed some potato pancakes.

Mmmmm.

Monday seemed so far away. Thirty-five seemed even more distant. Life is good, and so are carbohydrates.

The waitress dropped off our check a few minutes after the food came. We had all we needed, or at least we thought we did. She must have felt a pang of guilt for giving us a slight attitude, so as we finished up our breakfast, she returned to the table with a small plate. "I brought you girls some cookies from the bakery."

Oh, that was nice. I hope there's a cookie in there for the man at the table.

Sure enough, she continued, "And there's even one in there for (pause) Dad."

Gulp.

For one-tenth of a second, I asked myself, "How did she know that we were expecting? That's so sweet. "Dad" has a nice ring to it."

Then, in the time it took for my jaw to hit the paper menu in front of me, I realized the horror of what had just happened. The girls were giddy with laughter. Mrs. Undaground was trying to figure out whether she was "Mom" or another one of my daughters in this woman's twisted Bizarro-world fantasy.

I wanted to call the waitress back to pursue a line of questioning about her statement. What about my Speed Racer shirt? How old do you think I am? How old do you think she is, or her, or her? Why did you pause before you said "Dad"? Was it so you could look at me and confirm it? Did your parents have you when they were 13? Did you escape from a facility recently? Are you on any medication? What is an appropriate tip for someone who has just insulted you?

She didn't return to the table. I sat there for a moment, stunned. I watched the waitress as she stopped by a newly-seated table. What would she say to them? Hey ugly and uglier, can I take your order. She was no prize, herself. I'm not one to judge, but I was injured. People in glass houses shouldn't walk around naked (or throw stones, for that matter).

I lashed out like any young, impulsive person would. As my wife's sister bit into her cookie from across the table, I looked at all three of my dining companions and said "I can't believe I just got mistaken for middle-aged by someone who looks like they're from Middle Earth."

This struck my sister-in-law funny, and the cookie quickly became a comedy prop. She did a spit-take, that propelled cookie fragment across the table like shrapnel. I'm hit! I caught a piece of soggy shortcake in the forehead, one in the throat, and two more on my shoulder.

So there I was: humiliated, wearing a cartoon shirt, and topped with cookie crumbs like some kind of dumbass-sundae.

"You're only as old as you feel."

The day had barely started, and I had gone from feeling like a 34-year-old, to feeling like a college kid, to feeling like a 55-year-old father of three, to feeling like an overgrown toddler. I guess that's the thing about being in your mid-30's: Sometimes, you're not sure how to feel. Am I old? Am I young? Depends on who you ask.

For the record: That night, I partied like a rock star. Hey, if Mick Jagger can do it...