I’m sitting in a skin doctor waiting room this morning. It’s my 30th birthday and Dad’s genetic code really likes me.

I look around the room, people watching – something Jenny, my wife, taught me how to pull off pretty sleekishly. (Yes I made that word up.) I see a lot of us fair skinned types. Also, two men in tan slacks and nice polos, three women dressed for perfection, and then the guy I want to be like. He’s in a button up plaid shirt, dark turquoise at that, that he stopped buttoning three from the top. His face, weathered has that expression on it that says, I’m deep in my own thoughts here; it’ll take me a second to get out of them to engage in a conversation with you, but I would if you wanted to.

Why this guy? His whole presence speaks volumes: I am comfortable with the person I am. I don’t care much for your opinion or first impression. I’ll care about you, just not that junk.

He’s got to be 80. Even sporting sideburns and Levis. He doesn’t care what 80 is supposed to look like. I like that.