Matthew Keenan

At age 52, from time to time a thought enters my head — “I’m old.”

Sometimes it pops up in the form of a question; other times, a declarative pronouncement. With our oldest at age 22 and our youngest at 16, I’m a tweener — too young for a son or daughter’s wedding, too old to deny I need meds promising urgent relief.

So I debate the proposition without reaching a definite answer.

And while I kick that question back and forth, evidence continues to accumulate. We had our first college graduation this spring, and yes, the son’s diploma hit me; but it was also seeing my dad fatigue walking across campus from one event to another. He’s 81 but for someone who still works 6 days a week? His age has never been relevant.

Other moments struck me. When I attempted to complete my first running event, the Amy Thompson 8k in Loose Park, the question was conjoined with more salty words, finished with an exclamation point. Along the route, half the free world passed me by. Days later I learned the running times of many of those who ran by me. Seven men in their 70s smoked my time, including an 80-year-old who beat me by nine minutes. Old? Hardly.

Back to School night at the middle school with kid #4 is another moment of age reflection. You half expect some twenty-something mom to whisper my way, “Uh, grandparent’s day is in the spring.”

But nothing begs this question like what happened last weekend at KU during the fraternity’s annual “Dad’s Weekend.” For some, Dad’s Weekend is like a Hot Tub Time Machine — a time to hide the AARP card, lose the gray roots and party like its 1999, trading Jell-O shots with Buffy and Muffy in the Boom Boom room, then posting it all on Facebook while the liver gasps for air.

So there I was — Saturday night at the Wagon Wheel with my 21-year-old junior. A friend of the family was having a birthday party there and purchased a “birthday keg.” With a hotel room at the Oread, I thought,“Why not?”

You know those ads that play during pro football games when the geezer inconveniences everyone while he has to go? His name is Keenan. Doubtful the Wheel has changed much since I was there 30 years ago; this much I’m sure about — the men’s room hasn’t. And, in case you’ve never been there, phone booths come larger. Let’s say I had time to study the ceiling, walls, tile floor. What did I see? A kaleidoscope of names, accomplishments and bragging that bore no relationship to reality. College — those were the days.

Still, I was having fun, and seeing some familiar faces. The music was loud, which meant that, for once, I wasn’t the only one yelling “What?”

But about midnight, something happened. It was like someone attached a 20-pound weight to my eyelids. I needed a Five Hour Energy, an external defibrillator, No-Doz, leg cramps — something, well, urgently. Forget tap beer. My fantasy became a pillow, cotton sheets and a bathroom I could use without some dude with a bad aim at my elbow. So when my son was ready to move to other bars — places I call fake ID land — I waved the flag. What I yelled at him brought a nod. “I’m old.”

The next morning I was sharing at pew at St. Johns the Evangelist on Kentucky Street for the 10:30 service with two head-bobbing sons in tow. Afterward we had a world-class breakfast at Milton’s on Mass Street. The coffee and conversation flowed.

Growing old? Me? Not a chance.