price of age

So here we are.

We’re sitting on the sofa watching the first episode of the 39th season of The Price is Right. It’s like New Year’s Day for my husband. He’s so happy. 

Not as happy as when I found him the skinny Sony ECM-51 microphone just like the one Bob Barker and Gene Rayburn used. But pretty darned happy.

I’m always reminded this time of year how old I really am, because The Price is Right always makes a big deal about what season they’re celebrating. Since the flashy “new” (read: in color) Bob Barker- and now Drew Carey - version debuted in the fall of 1972 and I was born at the end of 1971, their season correlates to how old I am going to be in a couple of months. Not that I forget my age, but this is sort of like a big annual wake-up slap surrounded by brightly colored Mark Goodson-Bill Todman-esque flowers. Nothing like oversized numbers covered in sequins screaming at you at 11 AM Eastern/10 Central: “Hey! You’re going to be 39 soon!” Granted, it goes down a bit easier when you have the ebullient, easygoing Drew Carey trumpeting it instead of old man Barker, but still. I think “39” was said more often today than “come on down!” 

I guess this would be the paragraph where I try to make a point. I’m not sure that there is one.

But if I’m making a TV analogy, do I have to watch where I step to make sure that I don’t jump over any sharks anytime soon? Or did I already do that when I started talking to that little green alien that no one else could see?

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.