Because

Age equates erroneously in most people's minds with maturity, experience and, ultimately, equality.

To wit, we do not give children under a certain age the right to sit behind a two-ton death ram with impunity. We force onerous premiums for insurance on their parents, and if the parents are smart, pass that inconvenience on to them. We give them double and triple points on their licenses when they do wrong, and jerk those laminated freedom-passes the moment they cross the line once too often. We scare them with films like “The Blood on the Bricks Flows Red” and "He Smoked, He Drank, He Beheaded His Girlfriend."

Or, at least, we should.

We do not trust them, because they are not old enough.

Once they turn 18, they can die for their country. At 19 they can pollute their lungs and risk tongue, lip and cheek cancer with tobacco products. At 21 they can pickle their livers with alcohol and be jailed for bedding their high school girlfriends.

But until they’re 25, they can not rent a car.

They can’t even attempt to run the country, as they certainly know what’s best, until they turn 35, by which time we’ve safely, carefully, precisely enchanted them to the “way things are” and franchised them to “how they will always be.”

Because they are not yet old enough.

Apparently, on certain anniversaries of the day we came screaming, yelling and crying our way into this world, a hormonal-chemical-biological change occurs, and our maturity level increases above that from the previous day. This is readily apparent in parents who, at little league games, never resort to violence. Soccer-moms who refrain from punching the coach when the game appeared to be too physical.

Clearly, an Intelligent Design.

But what does this have to do with me and mine? Allow me to illucidate:

So it was that Lil (31) and I (33) celebrated out third wedding anniversary (leather) out of town in the wonderful tourist trap land of Big Bear Lake, California.

After a night of PG-13 rated action in which we both enjoyed about five minutes of television, and then become incredibly annoyed by all the advertisements, we awoke and went in search of vittles. The first destination choice was an IHOP, for which I have never turned a thumb up or down. However, because Lil’s flights of fancy when it comes to food generally depend on whatever fills her vision at that moment, we ended up at a Denny’s.

Or, perhaps, it was a Dee’s.

I can never remember which is which, except that one serves chili on food and the other doesn’t.

I always manage to end up in the one that doesn’t, and kick myself for not remembering because, along with movies and decent sushi, I also love chili.

Chili and cheese.

Chili and cheese with onions.

Chili-cheese burgers.

Chili-cheese omelets.

Chili-cheese dogs.

Chili and rice.

Chili and rice and hotdogs in an omlete.

Chili is what the gods of Olympia had wanted when they had to settle for ambrosia. Chili is what the Israelites were after when they were stuck with simple manna from heaven.

Is there anything chili can't do?

Chili is proof that there is a God, that He does love us and He wants us to be happy.

On this particular chilly and pun-intended morning, as I entered the non-chili-vending Denny’s (may they burn in the Hell of the Upside Down Sinner), we waited patiently, slightly longer than I would normally wait, but this was our anniversary celebration, so I was also slightly more than usually happy with life, the world and everything. Even Keanu Reeves seemed slightly less annoying as he joined us at the “Please Wait” counter, with a thumbs-up and a “Whoa” for greeting. I ignored him, as usual, but without my standard air of embarassed chagrin.

Finally, this older lady finally came to take us to our table by first saying, "C'mon kids."

Kids.

Not, youngins.

Not children.

Not thirty-somethings.

Kids.

Since she had us by at least twenty years (it's apparently not polite to ask, as my ice-water covered head will note) and clearly equated herself above us, regardless of our net household average income, because of her age in comparison with ours. When we were born, she was already saving for a mortgage, a car payment, or perhaps a Victrola phonograph. Clearly, she had, years before, reviewed the marketplace and found the food-service industry to be the one with the most potential for growth. I would wager it still has the most potential, and it will remain so in the years, decades and centuries to come.

I’m going to put it down to the fact that my wife still looks twenty.

Because she does.