It started for me innocent enough at work yesterday. I saw some dude dressed in what could best be described as visual cacophony, He looked like he was wearing a mismatched set of PJs. His hair was just as bad. He had vomit pink spot on the front that faded to an unnatural shade of brown, and finally into a more natural color hair color. Other items included metallic belt, and a fortune in scrap metal embedded in his face. Didn’t care for the mullet either.
Then I saw another person whom also was dressed to impede. He looked like he was savagely beaten,and humiliated by 80s stylists. Later I saw a few more dudes who didn’t look much better. Then I realized the common thread that linked them all. They were teens. I’m not hip to the new groove of neo80s, PJs, scrap metal and mullets I guess.
Although I thought sagging and bagging was stupid too, even when I was 10, so maybe I’m still young, but have semi-decent fashion sense.
For me it was a traffic cop who pulled me over - and looked like a child playing dress up. I seriously wanted to ask if his Mommy knew where he was. I’ve never felt like a kid myself since. . .
Yeah I thought seeing some of the kids at my college, but it’s okay, some of them actually are kids it turns out. Mostly kids in the local schools various career technical educations programs.
I used to watch football and think that maybe if I had chosen a different path it might be me out there. Now I watch and think: Holy hell that looks like it hurts!
Bifocals. Didn’t notice the gray hair, barely acknowledged people calling me “sir”. But when that cute little eye doctor told me there was no choice about the bifocals any more, I just felt old as sin.
People at work call me Miss Juliana. The Miss title is reserved for older people that you respect. I’m not old enough for that! Gee whiz, ya young whippersnappers - cut it out!
A few months back I was diagnosed with type II diabetes (prescription drug-induced), and my doctor wanted me to see an opthamologist to be sure the diabetes hadn’t damaged my eyes. During the exam, the opthamologist asked if I’d had any noticable changes in, or problems with, my vision.
“Well, I don’t know if it’s related to the diabetes,” I says, “but I frequently have to take off my glasses when I’m doing really fine detail work in the studio. If I leave them on, everything gets a bit blurry after a while, and sometimes I get pounding headaches.”
“Oh,” says doctor, a young gal about half my age, “that’s not from the diabetes; you’re just OLD. You can just continue to take your glasses off, or if you’d like I can write you a prescription for bifocals…”
Oddly enough, on the day I went to the opthamologist my bad knee (old motorcycle injury) was acting up and I had to use the cane I keep out in the garage “just in case” I ever need it; a circumstance which only occurs once or twice a year, tops.
For my grandfather, it was when he was checking out of a reasonably nice hotel. He was int he process of paying his bill and mentioned to the receptionist, as an afterthought, that he qualified for the Senior Citizen’s Discount.
The receptionist’s response? “Oh, I already gave it to you!”
For my one and only speeding ticket, I went to the police station to hand something in. I could swear the BOY behind the counter was TWELVE! With a little police uniform on!
I’m only 30, and I’m seeing children doing grown up jobs!
When I wake up in the morning sore, and it doesn’t go away after a hot shower. Sometimes I’m not even sure what I did yesterday that left me feeling like I’d fallen off my bike.
What’s with all the older male teens in the UK riding teeny tiny tiny little BMXs? When did that start? Do they think they look good? They look like people who stole their younger brothers’ bikes!
And the young men who ride down the street in traffic on skateboards. They look like idiots! And they’re a traffic hazard.
Literally the first time I went to the barber’s after I turned 30, suddenly they started using the clippers on my ears, not just on the hair above them.
Now, two years later, they’ve started going for my eyebrows too!
My assistant at work’s primary job description is “Making Larry feel old.”
Typical example - the blank look she gave in response to my dated repartée when she was telling me about her big-boobed friend that got singled out for inappropriate attire during her annual performance review. She gave me a great set-up: “The girl can’t help it,” and it never occurred to me that there are people walking around that haven’t heard Rough Trade’s “Highschool Confidential” ten thousand times, or to whom both Anita Ekberg and Mamie Van Doren are total unknowns.
On Friday, I had to “translate” someone “running an Andy Kaufman number” to “running a Sacha Baron Cohen number”* to get my meaning across, and then she rubbed my nose in it by pointing out that she was just a toddler when Man in the Moon was made. I dug up some illustrative Letterman appearances on Youtube (which I have clear memories of enjoy the original broadcast of) and realize that they must look to her about like the Tonight Show with Jack Paar looked to me – a relic of the prehistory of television.
To say nothing of the phrase “running a number” – even my slang is incomprehensible to these kids.
