We try to maintain a sense of humor about getting older.
It starts when you get teased about those first gray hairs showing up. But by golly, you look so darn dashing, let them tease.
I think our personal documentation of aging is mostly visual. Gray hairs, laugh lines, a growing paunch.
Sadly, the occasional gray eventually turns into a head-full, the laugh lines are still there when you’re not laughing, and we get bigger and softer in the middle.
It ain’t funny.
But while we’re basing age on what we see, I believe our brains are quietly cataloging verbal makers, the things we’re hearing.
Let’s start with being addressed differently. You get a title. You’re a Mister or a Miss or a Misses.
And while you tell yourself it’s no big deal, it registers like little noises. Maybe like a cap gun at first.
Hey, Mr. Tibbetts (pop!). Hey, Ms. Beverly (pop!)
To this day, I do not like being call ‘mister’ anything. Mr. Tibbetts, Mr. Allen… it all sounds like ‘grandpa’ to me.
Graduating to the next level, those cues become even louder, like firecrackers. People start saying sir or ma’am to you.
Yes sir (pow!). No ma’am (pow!).
Hey, we all get it. Saying mister and yes sir… It’s respectful, signs of a good raisin’. I just don’t like it.
The next sounds are louder still, maybe gunshots. That’s when the clerk looks at you and asks, “Do you qualify for our senior rate?”
In other words, ‘you look 65 or older to me. Are you 65 or older? ‘Cause you look 65 or older. Otherwise, why would I ask if you’re 65 or older?’
(Boom!)
I thought the noises would stop there because, what’s left?
Plenty, apparently.
We do our best to stay active. It doesn’t make us look any younger, but it helps us feel better about the whole aging thing.
We travel. My wife goes to the gym. I play golf, sometimes daily. We walk a lot, sometimes together.
It was on one of those walks recently when the big one exploded.
We had grabbed our hiking poles and trekked into a well-traveled spot on the Benton-MacKaye Trail in North Georgia that features the longest swinging bridge east of the Mississippi.
Toccoa River Swinging Bridge in Fannin County, GA
From the parking area, it’s a fairly short hike in, so it’s a popular spot for families to spend some time together.
It was on the way back out that we fell in behind a young mother and her fussy 4-year old. I’m guessing at his age, but it was clearly way past nap time.
What he wanted was to be carried, and she was having none of it. Therefore, his job was to make it as difficult as possible for her to make any progress getting back to the car unless she picked him up.
She threatened to withhold favors. “I’m not going to hold your hand if you keep crying.”
She tried shaming him. “See that little girl looking at you? She probably thinks you’re a big baby.”
Then my favorite, for creativity.
She told him Sasquatch would hear him if he didn’t stop crying.
Y’all, I am not a parent. But if I were, and if I thought I could shut up a fussy kid by telling him Bigfoot would eat him, I would absolutely use that.
The trail was narrow and it was really slow going, but she was doing her best, so we followed along politely.
Finally, we reached a point where we could to get around them.
“Look,” the mom pointed out, “now we’re being passed by elderly people with sticks.”
The elderly. With sticks.
KA-BOOOOM!!! (with endless rumbles of thunder echoing endlessly into the distance…)
Damn, lady. Just damn.