I'm Officially Old!

For a long time now, I've been telling myself that when I get old, I'm going to be a miserable bastard with a duck-head cane.

As of March 19, I'm one step closer! (wild cheers; dentures tossed skyward in fits of glee)

You see, according to the marketing people, those geniuses who keep track of who buys what, I have exited the "young person" demographic of 18 to 24. I know marketing is a science in and of itself, having college courses and everything, but it seems to me it's only a matter of reading product registrations (for those of you who actually register your products) or following people around in stores.

"So! Whatcha buying?"

"..."

"You getting young person stuff? iPods? How about a bag of hair elastics?"

"I'm a dude."

"I see! And what age bracket do you fit into? You gonna go buy some water-soluble fiber powder? Or how about this genuine cowhide baseball?"

"Get away from me."

I'd have fun being a Marketing Person. Especially once I'm really old and crusty.

I'll creep up on people in department stores and begin a period of strategic wheezing. I'll keep this up until they turn around. There they will find me, a stooped and bearded septuagenarian with a homburg hat holding a clipboard. I'll have a bent-up old cigar behind one fuzzy ear, and I will look at them like they were the biggest wad of monkey-leavings I'd ever seen.

"Gimme a minnit'a yer time," I'll demand in that petulant old man voice of mine.

"Excuse me?" the confused shopper will say, dropping an article of clothing.

"You heard me. Close yer mouth 'afore the hummingbirds get in. I'm a Marketing Person, and I hate you."

"That makes sense, because--"

"That's enougha yer backsass! What the hell you buying today? And how the hell old are you?" I will say, jabbing them with a piece of bamboo I found in the gardening section.

"I'm 34," the stunned person will say. They will give me a truthful answer before they even know they mean to, because I am an old man with a forceful personality and a piece of pointy bamboo.

"But--"

"Less of it, stumpy," I'll growl, trading my stick for a rusty old fountain pen. I'll scribble some nonsense on my clipboard, and look back up at them with my mistrustful old eyes. "What's that usless poo you're stuffin' in yer shoppin' cart?"

Without waiting for a response, I'll start pawing through their accumulated shoppings. "Crap. Useless. Ooh, got a rash, do ya? More crap. Junk. This stuff'll give ya gas. Even more crap..."

"Hey! Now, wait a--!"

"Cool it. I got what I need, Rashy. You may git."

And then I will shuffle away, laughing dirtily to myself under my breath, as I will invariably execute most of my exits.


Yes, being old is going to be fun. I'm not really looking forward to getting there, but arrival is going to be a party. A slow-motion party with a lot of wheezing.

In order to prepare, I'm having a few medical procedures taken care of on a preemptive basis. I'm having two new carbon-fiber and titanium hips installed. I've taken to wearing ear-hair toupees, and I'm going in next weekend for an operation that is supposed to detect and remove nose polyps, whatever those are. So far my most elaborate project is a big lighted signboard I've mounted on my garage door that keeps track of my...regularity. I'm eating plenty of orange fiber powder straight from the container with a big ol' wooden spoon, too, so my sign feels needed.

I consider any band formed after the year 2000 to consist of "whiny kids" capable of producing nothing but "unarranged clatter" and "barfing sounds".

I still want a faster car and computer and videogame console, but I doubt if I'll ever outgrow my toys. It's more of a cultural thing, my aging. Pretty soon, I'll be totally unbearable! Yay!