Fumbling Towards Eternity Over a Bag of Jelly Beans
A handful of change and an embarrassing moment
When I was a kid, one of the markers of senescence, along with white hair and hard candy, was a change purse. We saw it as an object ancient and unnecessary, snickering at the idea as we jingled the coins in the pockets of our Levis.
These days my wallet has a change pocket. Not quite so much a symbol of old age as a full-on change purse, but close enough.
This is a story about it.
My nine-year-old son is usually with me on Saturday, and often we’ll walk up to the Bulk Barn and save the planet by purchasing free-range candy or some other over-processed crap.
We got to the counter and a cheerful young woman rang up our jelly beans and pop. It came to $5.05, and I saw a chance to unload some of the loose coins I carry around in aforementioned change compartment.
I recognize that cash, or a wallet for that matter, is horse and buggy technology in a warp drive world. Nevertheless, if I don’t spend the change, my wallet becomes heavy and unmanageable and interferes with the hip swing in my swagger.
I found a couple of toonies and a loonie quickly enough to avoid consternation, but the nickel eluded me. I extracted a dime, but feeling that waiting for five cents change would make me look petty, I held the dime in reserve and plunged back in to find a nickel. I didn’t have my glasses on and quarters are similarly sized, so that was another few seconds lost.
I looked up half-panicked, and saw the girl watching me with a pitying look far worse than open impatience. I imagined myself through those kind eyes — a funny old guy fumbling for change instead of pulling out his debit card. If he even has one, because like as not he just goes into the bank every day and has a lovely chat with the teller while withdrawing seven dollars for tea and Werthers.
I thrust a handful of coinage at the girl, looked her in the eye, and said “I think this is right.”
She took the money, peered at it, and picked out a loonie. “I’ll give you this back.”
Another moment’s examination, and a dime was proferred. “And this.” Finally a quarter. “And this. Now it’s right.”
“Ha ha ha,” I chortled unconvincingly. “Should have worn my glasses. Have a great afternoon!”
She smiled gently and glanced at my son, perhaps speculating on our relationship — the age gap between us is the same as between me and my paternal grandfather — and wondering why I didn’t just let him pay, since he was surely more clear of eye and nimble of intellect than me.
It’s a cliche worth repeating that age creeps up on you. Life putters along for decades, unchanging, until one day years are unexpectedly flying by all jammed and noisy like the 504 King streetcar when you’re waiting in the rain at rush hour.
Chiseled features soften and droop, and while it’s a manageable sight if you have a moment to prepare emotionally, God help you if you turn a corner and encounter an unexpected reflection. “Dad?” you might think for a moment, if you even recognize the horrified codger looking back at you.
Oh, there’s temporary comfort in an artfully lit and posed photo, and a couple of drinks can renew the illusion of a razor-sharp jawline in the mirror. We should embrace those moments — ultimately everything is illusion anyway — but life is a short ride and a dark one, and we need to embrace all the other moments too.
And that’s what the accelerating passage of time has taught me.
Living in each moment isn’t exactly my idea, since it’s the basic underpinning of philosophies from Buddhism to Stoicism to some dude’s eighty-five dollar online course in mindfulness. But it becomes vastly more imperative when you realize that you’ve got a shit-ton fewer of those moments in front of you than you do in the rear-view mirror.
And that’s what I mean to do. To see the value and yes, the joy in everything. I won’t succeed of course, not all the time, especially if I’m lucky enough to get truly old with all the pains, worries, and travails that it can bring.
But I propose to live consciously enough, often enough, to slap myself mentally when I get caught up in embarrassment or self-doubt or anger about things which don’t mean fuck-all in a life that’ll last a hundred years or less.
Not to mind if I fumble a bit while buying candy to make my boy happy.
They tell me you should connect the end of a story to the beginning, otherwise it’s a pointless ramble. I’m not fussed about that myself, but if you’ve got this far I owe it to you to keep it coherent.
I started talking about change purses as totems of old age, something that we might see as foolish or useless. Like we might think of those older people scrambling to find a dime, or even think about ourselves.
But that’s never true.
The change purse has purpose and meaning, and so do I. And that’s enough.