Facing birth uncontrol with “Tell me what to do?” For starters, don’t do THAT!

 

Personal uniqueness and individuality?

Check.

Fully armed with human rights?

Check.

Warm and dry and fed?

Check.

Ready to listen to the other 6,999,999,999 scream out to be like you?

Sorry, man, you’re breaking up. You wanna repeat that?

‘Cause I heard you ask way to much, bro.

I’m not living under a bridge because, because, because, well because I’m not living under a bridge. Now you’re asking me to listen to them?

Dude, if I wanted to listen to homeless people I’d be homeless too so I wouldn’t have to do as much, like listen.

And I’m not homeless, never been homeless, won’t ever be homeless.

Funny thing, that’s what most homeless people said before they were homeless.

===

I met an old man in my gym one day. He was all about people power, traveled the world talking about it.

When I say met an old man, I mean this guy got in my face and wanted a few answers like old men who’ve decided your boundaries aren’t their boundaries.

If Mr. Burns had a brother, this was him.

He wore a white strap undershirt, little shorts, and his hair was perfect.

With the nodding head of a ninety year old he stood in front of me and asked, “Do you like to sweat?”

Goofy question, right? But not this time.

During my ‘sweat my guts out’ phase of fitness I wore five layers on top, three on the bottom, and sweated bullets.

I showed up in the gym gassed before I even started. Just pulling all the heavy shirts and plastics on is tiring as hell.

Add some sauna, some bike, some lifting, and I’ve got a Multnomah Falls pouring down my face.

It’s a real challenge for wick-dry, cotton, or a freaking sponge suit to absorb, and here’s Mr. Burns giving me the shit while I’ve got a heat on.

“Do you like to sweat?”

Right about now a proper gentleman breaks out the, “Yes Sir,” “No Sir,” out of respect for the elderly. At least that’s what some young punks pull on me.

My nickname isn’t Q-Tip but I do have a cotton swab looking wad of hair growing. I’m just another old guy to them, like Mr. Burns to me.

Besides, it’s a gym of equals when you get down to it. Manners are negotiable.

“Do you like to sweat?”

Look, it’s a gym. If you’re not sweating, you’re not doing anything. Like we’re doing right now.

“Did you grow up in a hot place?”

Not this hot. Nobody grew up in a place as hot as this sweat hell.

“Do you like visiting hot places?”

Not so much, I’ve got all the heat I need right here.

(You’ve probably guessed what happened next. The old man tired of too much smart ass and moved along? Not. The. BoomerPdx. Way.

If you’ve got someone quizzing you, got an old man who reptile walks the sort of walk that’s missing a few control factors, even things out with some kindness.

He’s not going away, or he’d already be gone, and the only way to move him is driving him away like a jackass.

The questions he’s asking you only carry one answer: He wants you to engage in his inane bullshit while you’re on task for an eight pound drip weight drop. Show some kindness. Goes like this:)

Do you enjoy traveling to warm places?

“I’ve been everywhere, traveling the world for my work.”

(He just sunk the hook. Now you have to ask the question, so I did.)

What sort of work took you around the world?

“Populations studies. Birth control, or what I call birth uncontrol. I represent a population control group advocating slower populations growth. Are you married?”

(The old guy got interesting; they usually do if you get them on the right day. This wasn’t the right day for me, but he hooked me.)

That’s right, married. Married a long time.

(The normal thing would have been to ask him the same question, “Are you married?” Except I’m a firm believer that strangers tell you all you need to know, at least all they want you to know. This is where my wife cracks down on me. Honey says, “Why don’t you ask more about people you see?”

Maybe you know the answer here? You’ve got too much to know about people who aren’t strangers. Or you just don’t care. Either one works. But I continued. Why? I was changing my mind about his shaky old melon. I was watching his confidence dial up.)

“Children? Do you have kids?”

Two boys, two sons.

“Four kids?” he said with a sly math trick smile. I returned it with a sly dad-smile.

Boys grow to men. Two sons.

“A family of four in America using all the world’s resources.”

(Honey had a friend who saw our house the first time and said we’re raping the rain forests of the world to live in such splendor. Said not to take it personally. Note to environmental awareness, no jungle hardwoods anywhere. And this from someone buying forestland and clear-cutting. Think local?)

Are you married?

“Seventy years. Two kids. But people like you and I aren’t the norm across the globe. That’s why I say birth uncontrol. Leave your replacements, two kids. That’s enough, but population is out of control.”

This is the subject that took you around the world?

“Still do. Do I look retired?”

You’ve been to China? To India?

“And everyplace in between,” he said.

(The head shake came into focus. It wasn’t nerve damage, it was attitude. His head shook in affirmation of everything he said and saw, even before he said it.)

More people live there than live in Portland?

“More than live in Oregon, California, and Washington, than America.”

That’s a lot of people.

“And we use so much for so few of us.”

That’s what I hear. Like gym membership.

“It’s a difficult time for so many in an era of birth uncontrol.”

Well, I agree, and listen, good talking to you. We need to stay warm so let’s keep moving. You’ve got a good cause, sir.

He backed away from me one step, then two, head nodding.

“Every cause is a lost cause until we learn population control. You remember that.”

(I played the vasectomy card. He gave me salute and turned away.)