Chapter One: Corny Love
Ninety years is a long time to go without
falling in love. Maybe too long. Only ten years shy of a century. A lifetime
for some, multiple for others who are stolen too soon.
Ninety years is almost too much to
comprehend in one day’s worth of appreciation through contemplation. Ninety
years is a whale of a time, 32,850 days to be exact, a Blue whale to be
specific. You can’t explain ninety years because you can only experience it and
if you are lucky enough to experience it you probably don’t have the energy to
even try to make sense of it all. Ninety years is a substantial number of
decades to gather a suitcase full of memories that you carry with you wherever
you go.
How many people will you meet in ninety
years? Tens of thousands without a doubt. Think of all the hearts you have
touched in ninety years and all the people who have made an impression on
yours. How many faces have you seen in ninety years? Millions without a doubt.
Think of all the throngs of people who you have seen but never met. What would
you do with your ninety years? If you are among the fortunate ones, you will
get the opportunity to put your dreams into practice. If you never accomplish
what you set out to do with your life after ninety years, who cares? We all end
up blending into one massive, ever-growing plume of dust, cast in whatever
direction the wind is blowing.
And you won. You already won by making it
to ninety years old. It’s all gravy after that. As the kids might say, your
life has been lit; both the candles on your previous ninety birthday cakes and
you as a person. You are probably more enlightened than most people in
Hollywood who do transcendental meditation, write a travel blog about their
adventures with their Yorkshire Terrier, Leo, and are on the Keto diet which
they will suavely sprinkle into countless conversations.
Would you take the advice of a
ninety-year-old person? They have got to know something to make it that far;
something is working in their favor, some sort of weird potion of mysticism. WWANYOD;
What Would A Ninety-Year-Old Do?
How well does a ninety-year-old know
themselves though? They must still be learning new things every day, having
fresh and unique experiences, finding new flavors of frozen yogurt to sample if
you will (have a delicious, refreshing cold snack on a muggy summer day). They
are probably still learning new things about who they are as a person and what
makes them tick too. Imagine that; ninety years old and you are still growing,
becoming a more whole and well-rounded individual. You are ninety years old and
your journey is not complete. You are ninety years old and you have a page full
of items left on your personal to-do list.
Your to-do list is what keeps you going at
that age. It gets you out of bed in the morning and gives you a thump on the
old behind. Most of your friends and family have moved on to another form of
life if you believe in that kind of stuff. Maybe they were reincarnated as the
young frozen yogurt attendee that helped you at the frozen yogurt place that
you were metaphorically sampling new life experiences at.
There’s no way around it, ninety is pretty
dang old no matter how you slice the pizza pie that’s just how the cookie
crumbles. But it’s not too old to fall in love. It’s never too old to fall in
love. Cue the corny love music, let’s say Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper.
Chapter
Two: The Story Begins
Hank was always content. He had never
found love in his ninety years on the planet but every morning he woke up with
a smile on his face and a fire in his belly. Hank was a man strictly set in his
routines. His alarm had been set for 6:00 AM since he was studying Economics at
the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
Hank was known throughout the hallowed
halls of both Urbana and Champaign as being perhaps the biggest party animal on
campus. He was also the middle linebacker on the football team, class president
and the ultimate teacher’s pet. One time he agreed to mow a teacher’s lawn
every two weeks for the summer to get his grade on a paper bumped up from a B
plus to an A minus. The promise fell through after a month, once the final
grades for the class had been submitted, as Hank was never one to keep his word.
One story from Hank’s halcyon days as a
Fighting Illini stands out particularly in the Etch A Sketch of his aged mind.
He was out water skiing on his fraternity brother, Todd Mulgren’s, boat. Now
this wasn’t just any water ski run that you might see a water skier of typical
talents and state of mind attempt. This was a water ski run for the ages; that
is, if a squad of Billabong board shorted bros were keeping track of the great
water ski runs in history via messenger seagulls. Hank seemed to do everything
in those days for the ages. He had a certain timelessness about him; a
throwback in a time where every day was Throwback Thursday. His stranglehold on
sleight of hand was unbridled, unassuming and often unwarranted; we’ll delve
deeper into that banana cream pie a little bit later.
Back to the water ski run. Like I was
saying, this was most certainly a water ski run for the ages. They used to call
the body of water west of the twin cities and the university Kaufman Lake until
Hank got a crack at the beast. The instant the final nail had been smashed into
the aquatic coffin and Hank the Hammer was all through with his jet ski ride
for the ages the locals began dubbing it the Lake of Champions, that is once
they could find their colorfully patterned bucket hats that they had tossed in
the air in celebration like the most chill graduation of all time.
It began with a simple challenge. Hank,
never being one to back down from a measly challenge, accepted without
deliberation or concern for his safety or that of anyone in the vicinity of the
speed boat. Hank laughed in the face of even the boldest of challenges. He was
even less likely to back down from a challenge than he was to keep his word.
This specific challenge was handed down by his fraternity’s patriarchy of Chads,
Alpha Omega and Johnson, Milner and Suiza. The challenge was modest in the eyes
of the Chads; do everything you can to have the most epic water ski run of all
time. Let’s just say, the Chads were not disappointed which is their typical
feeling barometer reading.
Chapter
Three: The Patriarchy of Chads
The story of the origin of the Patriarchy
of Chads is a tale older than time.
It was a dark, stormy Tuesday afternoon in
late November. Multi-colored leaves were falling faster than the cumulative GPA
of Alpha Omega as classes amped up.
Instagram: @ChrisArneson8
