Officially Old

I noticed the hashtag #YouAreOfficiallyOldIf was trending today and realized that I am officially old because I considered responding. The main question I have is, “How the fuck did this happen so quickly?” One day I’m drinking beer from a returnable bottle, the next I’m sipping bourbon neat. One day I’m chasing tail, the next I’m shrugging.

My baseball buddies simply reject the idea of getting old.

“Dude, if you don’t admit you’re old, you’re not old. It’s just a number.”

“Really? You saw that pop-up land between the pitcher and first baseman in the last inning, right?”

“They’re old. We’re not.”

I came up to bat, hit a double, and called Uber halfway to first. How long before I’ll be swinging, hopping on a scooter, and riding my way around the bases? Fuck. Born bald, put in diapers, and strapped into a chair — life ends similarly.

I feel oldest when at work tending bar. Many of the sweet, little servers are preggers. Yay! So cute. Little bubble bellies. Aw. Naturally, I know not to comment about such, unless they bring it up. One mentioned it this week.

“I’m going to have to work right up until my water breaks. Ugh.”

“Yikes.”

“I know.”

“Umm, that will be an interesting clean-up crew assignment.”

“Right? Hey, do you have any kids?”

“Bwah, haha ha ha!”

I had to walk away, I was laughing so hard. Tears streamed. I slapped the bar. Doubled over. I looked back at her. She had a look of horror, wondering if it was lunacy or mood-altering pills that had me reeling.

I explained to her that I am simply not well-suited for such. Children are annoying, smelly, and needy. I have no patience for such. Aging to me is all about removing stress and annoyances. In fact, I invested in and overnighted an air vent deflector because the A/C breeze was blowing on me while I typed. That’s how fragile I’ve become.

“Look, kids are wonderful. (Tee, hee, hee.) I’m sure it’s a blessing for you and your man. (Yuck, uck, uck.) You’ll have someone to care for you as you age. (Eh, hem.) Could be worse. My kids are cats. They’ll eat me when I die.”

She wasn’t amused.

I know I’m double the age of most of my coworkers and supervisors. It is what it is. Many of them are confused about why I do what I do. They expect to see me in a Bocce pit, not a bar or in a suit and tie in front of fellow executives delivering a PowerPoint presentation on some corporate dumbfuckery.

I do this to afford the nightly distraction from my mortality — booze.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.