By Janice S. Aitken

Lately, I am more than usually aware that I’m slightly out of step with the rest of society. Maybe it’s just that advancing age has cured me of any tendency to leap on the nearest trend and ride it off into the sunset, hooting and hollering. Or maybe they just don’t make trends like they used to.

But anyway:

I don’t own a single house plant. Not one.

I’d rather read than watch television. I haven’t ever seen a videomovie, and it wouldn’t do me any good to rent one and a VCR, because the television is black and white. I see no reason to buy a color set I’m not going to watch.

I don’t have a Cuisinart, a lettuce dryer or a microwave. I do not feel deprived, either.

I have never willingly used a car seat belt. I think they tend to convince drivers that Nothing Can Happen To Me If I Have My Seat Belt Fastened. As a result, belted optimists drive faster than conditions warrant (they seem to spend a lot of time on the median strip and in the snowbanks in the winter) and do odd things like passing on a double yellow line where they cannot possibly see what may be coming at them over the hill or around the corner.

I also notice that as the use of seat belts increases, car liability insurance rates keep going up. Possibly there is a relationship.

I do not wear running shoes, or Birkenstock sandals, or L.L. Bean’s latest alleged-Maine-guides favorite foogear, or even walking shoes.

I like barn boots. I don’t have a barn any more, but I do have a long wet uphill walk through brush to my spring, and the same thing downhill to my piece of the first Branch, except it also has poison ivy. Barn boots are good in mud season and, with wool socks inside, deep snow. Great traction.

I don’t fret about cholesterol, my liver, or the fiber content of meals. I tend to eat whatever the budget can afford and when the budget can afford it, I like nothing better than a steak. Well marbled, please. I like butter on my bread and caffeine in my coffee and bacon with my eggs, too.

I already served my apprenticeship in whole grains (including brown rice), honey instead of sugar, and vegetables with the hair and the hide still on. My mother was a health food nut about 40 years before it became popular; she even left the peels on when she made applesauce. Probably those peels are still circulationg in my artieries, keeping them scrubbed clean.

When it comes to a cold beer on a hot day, my preference is Ballantine Ale. (I can hear the voices now, exclaiming, "Whazzat? I never heard of it.")

I do not drink Scotch. I do not drink Martinis, Pink Squirrels, Tequilla Sunrises, Russians, either Black or White, Green-Eyed Dragons, or other creative arrangements of alcohol. I drink Jack Daniel’s and water on occasion, like before dinner. For the benefit of those who are unaware of the traditional drinking habits of middle-class-over-50s folks, Black Jack is not the number one choice.

I am not going to quit smoking. I smoke about two packs of Winston Light 100s a day, in open defiance of the ominous warnings of the good Dr. Koop, the AMA and scads of my friends and relatives.

In another couple of years, I suppose us hardcore addicts will gain status as an Oppressed Minority. I’m kind of looking forward to it. I plan to lead the march through the streets, waving my chest X-rays that—so far—reveal nothing of any interest at all to the radiologist.

By now you’ve guessed it. I’m not just out of step, I’m marching to a different drummer. Gene Krupa, perhaps.