Amol Shrikhande’s Eras Tour

If Taylor Swift, born in 1989, can have eras, then my 1977-born cells sure can.

Yes, they may not be quite as exciting, but I’m not one to harp on the details.

Here’s the wild ride, in chronological order.

 

Innocence (1977-1990)

I spent my childhood in a fantasy land, convinced that the only thing that mattered in life was the performance of the New York Yankees. I listened to baseball games on the radio, and then I switched to watching them on TV. I even played baseball, deluding myself into believing I was competent. There was no room for reality in this world, and I didn’t go out of my way to make any.

 

Rejection (1991-1995)

As high school rolled around, some of the harsh truths about life began to make themselves apparent. First, I was cut from a wide variety of sports teams. Heck, I was cut from teams that didn’t even exist. Then came a slew of letters from universities regretting to inform me that I was unworthy of admission.

In the end, all the rejection made me stronger—or just a reject, but no need to analyze so deeply.

 

Promise (1996-2003)

Once the phase of nonacceptance passed, the seas parted, and it looked like I was on a path to the promised land.

A full head of hair.

A flat abdomen.

A degree or so.

Some interest from the opposite sex.

The optimism of youth.

The possibilities of time.

As Tracy Chapman (and then Luke Combs) said, I had a feelin’ I could be someone.

 

Adulthood (2004-Present)

Suddenly, my youth was taken from me, and in its place was the behemoth that is adulthood.

I had a wife.

How did that happen? (It’s a question she still asks every day.)

Then came a couple kids.

The next generation was here, being raised by a generation that was painfully slow to embrace the responsibilities of maturity, with me as the posterchild of the movement.

Let’s just say I’ve carried the torch rather well.

 

Suburbia (2012-Present)

What’s adulthood without cookie-cutter housing and dangerous lawn chemicals?

Playset? Check.

Basketball hoop? Check.

Conversations about bushes? Check.

I took the Rush song “Subdivisions”—opinions all provided, the future pre-decided, detached and subdivided, in the mass production zone—and ran with it.

 

Regression (2015-Present)

This has been a phase of rebellion, one typically reserved for teenagers, but one that I entered in my late 30s.

I was supposed to join a country club, get a fancy car, talk about taxes, take a leadership role at work, and generally pat myself on the back.

Instead, I started wearing ugly T-shirts, became a blogger, took to blasting music, and found a high-end dive bar.

It all made sense.

And it still does.

 

Fatness (2020-Present)

I’m not talking about morbid obesity (yet).

The reference here is to dad bod. Flabby in the chest, and even flabbier in the midsection. The slow march from medium to extra-large has not been particularly graceful. I even received a gift that was XXL, perhaps a subtle hint that XL was no longer sufficient to prevent nausea upon glimpsing my profile.

Throw in graying and thinning hair, and the aforementioned kids are dumfounded that there ever was a Promise Era.

 

Now the question everyone is asking is what’s next? Being the marketing genius I am, I’ve dropped a few hints, and social media has been abuzz regarding what eras could be on the horizon.

Fatness, upsized?

Deadbeatedness?

Bad writing?

A return to light beer?

Only time will tell.