Cute

 Some memories have a way of sticking around and tickling the brain for years after the event. Even little memories about inconsequential things. The following is one of those. It happened about ten years ago, during the almost-ready-for-retirement years when I highly suspected I was about to grow old.

Something strange happened to me in the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. Hal and I were on our way to a Miami meeting of the academic council of the program we worked with. We had a two-hour layover in Dallas right at lunch time. Although I try to eat healthy food, even on trips, I occasionally I get the urge for a hamburger, fries, and coke. (This is a confession.) I knew of a place in the airport that served gourmet burgers and I managed to talk Hal into it.

We found a table in the crowded mall and slowly ate our burgers, thoroughly enjoying this slightly sinful luxury. We were not too aware of the people around us, but as we got up to leave the restaurant, a young couple at a nearby table stopped us, and said, “You guys are so cute! How long have you been together?”

I managed to mumble, “Oh, about 50 years,” and Hal added, “We really like each other.” “We can tell,” the woman said, and we moved on.

I was stunned and not altogether pleased. It seemed like something one said to wrinkled people with white hair who hobble down the street holding hands. And who are, indeed, cute. I knew I was growing older, but I wasn’t quite ready for cute.

There was a time, of course, when cute mattered. I was a serious adolescent, a student, a reader of good books, a poet, and so on. But in my heart of hearts I longed to be a cheer leader, go steady, and be considered cute.

Thanks be to God, I outgrew it. As an adult cute ceased to occupy a place on my list of values (except for the time when, as a young mother, I was relieved that my babies were cute). I haven’t worried about cute in years, and I certainly don’t want to now.

I guess this is really about growing older and accepting this season in life. I’m not sure how I’m doing with this, even now. I need to admit that as soon as I got home from Miami, I bought some hair color, part of my anti-cute remedy. But this, of course, didn’t solve anything. I think I just need, once again, to confess my dis-ease (what I’m doing here), laugh about it, and focus on what matters.

So, what matters?  How about—“To do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God”? No age limits on that.

Sort of makes cute irrelevant.