As I’ve aged into the final quarter of my expected lifespan, I find I don’t listen to new music much anymore. This is not true for everyone at this stage of life. My wife, for example, consistently picks up new bands and songs, adding them to her playlist. I salute her.
 
She’s probably an outlier in that way. I’m only guessing based on going to weddings.
 
That’s a weird connection, so let me explain. Weddings are where we often get exposed to the music of others. It could be from the older generation or a younger generation. It could be there’s a lot of music at the reception from a certain genre because that’s what the two partners love and agree on. Or, there might be tunes that are danceable – not really falling into a specific category.
 
Regardless, you hear different (perhaps new) music. You can like it or not, you can dance or not, but it’s coming at you.
 
Having gone to a few weddings of a generation younger in the past eight months, I’ve determined that others my age don’t know many newer songs. At our son and daughter-in-law’s recent wedding, for example, I spoke with several others in our age bracket after a good song came on, “Have you heard this before? It’s pretty good.”
 
“Nope,” was the typical response.
 
That doesn’t stop you from dancing though. You’re in a good mood, and ready to rock. That’s one of the best things about weddings.
 
Now I can’t get “Pink Pony Club” by Chappell Roan out of my mind. The lyrics stick with me, the beat goes through my head. I found myself yelling with others on the dance floor the catchy refrains. “AH MOAN KEEP ON DANCIN’!” Raise those hands people.
 
When I returned from the wedding in St. Louis, I found myself humming the tune. Going to bed, the repeat lines would cruise through my head over and over. My wife got sick of me, though I think I amused her with my obsession. “Hey, honey, I’m going to the Pink Pony Club. Ah moan keep on dancin’.” She’d grin and give me that look.
 
Why that song? I don’t really know. It’s catchy. I can understand most of the lyrics. In fact, I went online when I got home to listen to it on YouTube and see the lyrics printed out below as the song unfolded so all those words slightly distorted by my old man hearing abilities were clear to me if I wanted to belt out the exact words.
 
I had a meeting the week after the wedding of the Wisconsin Masters Games, where I’m a Board member. We hold annual games (20+ competitions) in various sports for senior athletes. I tend to be on the younger side of the Board members. I asked them if anyone had heard of “Pink Pony Club.” Zero response from the four other members. I looked around the table, amused.
 
I know a new song and singer now and feel somewhat righteous. I have opened conversations lately with people ages 22-40. It’s funny.
 
It is hard to keep up with new culture. I think part of that reason is you stick with the familiar, and another part is your brain fills up. The sponge is saturated and less capable of absorbing. So, we stick with the old. It’s why my parents got up and went crazy at weddings on the dance floor when Benny Goodman came on with his swing music. It was their thing.
 
It’s nice to get into new music. It opens you up to the world in a spontaneous and joyous way. Ah moan keep on dancin’ at that Pink Pony Club.

​Last week, a smoke warning was issued in southeast Wisconsin, where we live. This has happened before, in particular two summers ago when massive fires in western Canada percolated through the air to our territory. It was bad.

It was worse last week. The weather person came on to warn people with any type of breathing-related issues to stay indoors. Don’t exercise or do heavy work outside.
 
As those warnings go, I typically don’t listen. I’m healthy, exercise regularly and do regular cardio workouts in different ways.
 
This time though I listened. Something struck me. I think the warnings took me back to the Covid year, 2020. I was just under the age of 65 at the time and when they warned back then that people most at risk were immune-compromised or over the age of 65, I felt righteous that my age fell just under line drawn.
 
Do the math, and you have my age today. When the talking heads kept issuing the warnings last week, it struck me I was now in the age bracket of concern. And, yes, it concerned me.
 
I thought about playing golf in the haze. Then, I thought, “Uh, probably shouldn’t do that.”
 
I did a little bit of yard work. But I stopped myself quickly, keeping the chores minimal.
 
On Saturday, I played baseball and had to run hard to first base three times on base hits. Being on first base once, our next batter crushed a double and I had to sprint to third. I was sucking wind coming into third. The feeling was unusual.

Our local air quality hit 700 towards the end of the work week (though I’m confident it dropped significantly below that by our game time on Saturday). Those air quality numbers define 201-300 as very unhealthy. Over 300 is considered “hazardous.” So, we achieved “over double hazardous” last week.
 
Running those bases, I recognized the hazard. Yes, I knew the air was bad, and had been watching how I moved and focused on not over-exerting, but adrenaline took over. It’s hard to stop that. After catching my breath, it took me a minute to realize why I struggled.
 
More than 20 years ago, I was working in New Jersey and driving down the Garden State Parkway while wildfires raged. I drove through smoke. You smelled it, even felt it, in your car. It was claustrophobic and scary. With smoke that thick, I remember thinking how you could start coughing and never stop, or if you had a lung condition, you’d struggle to catch your breath. The smoke felt like it would never end.

I get the warnings now. They apply to me and a helluva large segment of our population.
 
It can be easy to ignore the weather reports because of how often their predictions are wrong. You can lull yourself into not believing anything they say.
 
That 301+ hazard ranking (maroon) is defined as, “Health warning of emergency conditions: everyone is more likely to be affected.”
 
It’s not just us old folks, young children and immune-compromised who are in danger. Smoke warnings are the real deal now for everyone when they hit maroon. Pay attention.

​Acknowledging you are overmatched seems to be a strange thing to admit in our U.S. world, where we’re often messaged with a “you can be and do anything if you just work hard enough” mantra. While I don’t fundamentally disagree with the principle that hard work gets you somewhere, helping you improve and develop, there are still activities and situations and talents that you just aren’t going to have over the course of your lifetime.
 
And, then, there are those times you are overmatched. This can be in your job where you’re given an assignment outside your skill set. Or, for example, someone wants you to deal with a technological issue that’s far beyond your scope of understanding. Or, it could just be someone asking you to jump three feet in the air, and you know for damn sure that you can’t humanly do that.
 
Being overmatched is an awakening. Two weeks ago in our senior baseball league (players must be 55-years-old at a minimum), I had one of those awakening moments.
 
I’ve played in league for six years, and swing a heavy bat, nicknamed in a friendly way by my teammates as the “orange telephone pole.” I take pride in pounding the horsehide.
 
Most of the time I get a good piece of the ball. In general, I make contact, drive it hard. Rarely do a get fooled or miss.
 
Until that awakening moment. We batted against a new pitcher and he hummed it to the plate. The catcher’s glove popped. Our first few batters fouled off multiple pitches and when they did make contact, they did not get around effectively to pull the ball. Most were pushing the ball to the opposite field or striking out.

When I got up, knowing the speed this guy was throwing, I moved back in the batter’s box. Give myself an extra tenth of a second to see the ball and respond and get around on it. In my first at bat, I could not get around on the pitcher. Like my teammates, I barely tapped a grounder to the opposite side of the field (second base) and was thrown out.
 
I got back to the dugout, immediately realizing I was overmatched. How was I going to adjust? The orange telephone pole had to sit down. I rummaged in my bag and brought out a smaller, lighter version of my bat and swung it a few times. Time to adjust.
 
My next at bat I grounded hard between third and short and though I was thrown out, I’d made solid contact. I wasn’t overmatched. My third at bad was a solid single to right field (still a little slow with the hands).
 
When I was a kid, I remember two situations where I was moved up a league to play with the older guys and both times I couldn’t hit the ball at the level I was accustomed to. Both times I had to mentally change how I batted until I’d adjusted to the stronger arms.
 
As a youngster, I was trying to compete with the older guys. Now I’m the very older guy trying to adjust to the younger guys throwing heat. I’ve got to use my head to adjust, but as long as I take that step, they’re still not blowing it by me. That feels good and adjusting is a good lesson to keep in mind regardless of whether it’s baseball, work or life in general.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, fine wine for dining is sublime. Some people love it. I don’t.
 
What is it about people bringing you wine for a gift? This happens when guests come to dinner. My wife and I have gotten bottles from realtors after selling our house through them. Recently, we had some home modifications made and the builder brought us a bottle of wine in thanks.
 
This is all well and good, but what if you don’t drink wine? Why choose that gift? If you are giving a gift to someone, shouldn’t you give them something they like or will use?
 
We have ALMOST never drink a bottle wine that someone has brought us as a gift. Sometimes we regift it (yipppeee, we found someplace to get rid of it). Occasionally, we have someone over who drinks wine and we open it then. I may even imbibe a glass for three.
 
But, normally that’s not the case. The bottle sits and sits. It probably could be put in our basement and aged for decades, to be found the next time we did serious power cleaning to rid our storage areas of unused debris.
 
Here’s my whine about wine. We’ll use a realtor as an example.
 
A realtor should learn things about you during your time working together to sell or purchase a home. You converse, they should ask you questions, get to know what makes you tick. That’s how you successfully sell or buy a home – by best understanding your clients’ needs, then meeting them to the best of their ability.
 
I’m not saying they should quiz you about your drinking habits. But it’s fair to ask whether you like pets, what your hobbies are, if you travel and where, what you like to do in your spare time (gardening, for example, or hiking). There are many natural good topics they could explore with you.
 
As they pick up things about your personality, habits, what you do in your spare time, there are many housewarming gifts the realtor could come up with that would make sense tailored to what makes you tick. Through those conversations, they could easily figure out that you don’t like or drink wine.
 
If for some reason during the course of your relationship that these types of conversations don’t occur, then just ask. “Hey, Dave are you a wine drinker?
 
“No.”
 
End of conversation. Buy me a nice sharp axe. I like to pound out my frustrations by splitting wood.
 
Do you ever get an axe though? Of course not, instead it’s a bottle of sweet white wine. Yecch. That’s even worse because on those rare occasions I have a glass, it is red.
 
Here’s why this happens, it seems to me. People project something they like onto you. The realtor is a white wine drinker and says to herself, “Oh, they’ll like a nice bottle of this sauvignon blanc.”  Little does she know you barfed the first and only time you drank sauvignon blanc because you over-indulged and didn’t know your limits. Bad choice, Ms. Realtor.
 
Stop projecting. Ask questions instead. Okay, I feel better now.
 
I’m done whining about wine gifting. Give me a beer or a good bottle of bourbon. Now you know me a little better.