grandpa

I knew Saturday was there, waiting for me, ready to pounce.  It read my Friday blog post, snickered, peered at me from under its bushy eyebrows, and grinned.  That unsettling, bratty, tickle-monster grin.  

Serves me right, I suppose, for lamenting my age and the passage of time.

This past Saturday, my friend of twenty-five years, married the woman who paints his face with a ridiculously contented grin.  A woman whose two beautiful toddling grandchildren call my friend, my school-daze chum, my contemporary, “Grandpa”.

Grandpa.  I ask you.

Okay, I knew that my my friend's bride had two bubbly grandchildren.  I had simply not considered how they might refer to my chum.   

I fully expected that if Thor (not his real name, though strangely, it suits him) and I ever raised families of our own, we would be Uncles to one another’s kids.  Y’know, the cool uncles who knew stuff and could get away with kidding and cajoling under smirking parental eyes.  But what am I supposed to do with this?  If my friend is a Grandpa, am I a Great-Uncle?  In which case, am I to let my eyebrows grow bushy and start carrying hard butterscotch candies in my pocket?

I shake my first at thee, Saturday.