Local Opinion: Millstone milestones and the Age of Ageism

As a young child, I remember walking by a school with my mother and she said, “Next year when you are 5 you will be spending all day there.” Sounded ominous although I did not really understand. However, this was my first learning experience of what being a certain age meant. Age 5 meant school.

The next significant age, and we all looked forward to it, was 16. You could drive. And, get a real job with a Social Security number and a paycheck.

Then it was 21. You were free of all restraints. You could drink liquor, sign contracts, even vote. In those days, one couldn’t vote at 18.

After that, there was not much anticipation. Sure, there was 35 when you could be President of the United States. It didn’t mean much to me or many of my friends. I mentioned it to our Catalina High School senior class prexy Jay Kittle and he just shrugged his shoulders.

At 62 you could collect Social Security, 65 for Medicare, at 70 you could work full-time and still get full Social Security without penalty.

Turn 75 and you could go through airport security without taking your shoes off. There’s something nobody ever thought about until 2001.

And, finally at 80 you get free lift tickets at some ski resorts. Whoopee!

But, being a certain age is only half of the story. Looking a certain age is the other half.

I always looked old. I could buy a six-pack of Lucky Lager beer at Torchy’s Liquors over on 22nd Street when I was 16. My buddies loved that. As a teenager I could browse the “adults only” section of the Crescent Smoke Shop downtown and buy a sunbathing magazine without question.

In my 20s I looked mature enough to have good jobs alongside older folks who knew a lot more than I did. It was great. Being almost totally bald never bothered me. It was an advantage.

Looking old was great … until it wasn’t. In my 40s a pimply-faced kid in a fast-food restaurant said, “Don’t worry sir, I already included your senior citizen discount.” I protested. “I am only 48.” He came back with, “Really?” I could tell he was astounded.

One day I was strolling with my wife when she ran into a friend who had never met me. She casually (and thoughtlessly) asked, “Oh, is this your grandfather?” Hey, she may be 10 years younger than me, but come on…

Taking public transportation in foreign countries, while standing, some young person would invariably jump up and say, “Oh, sir, you can have my seat.” At first I objected. A few years later I was thankful for their consideration.

Eventually I just decided to accept the good things that come with age. I recently turned 80. Inside I still imagine myself jauntily walking through the UA campus and looking at the pretty girls. But, I look in the mirror and see an old grizzled geezer.

However, I have become grateful for the courtesies accorded me, the old guy.

But, there is still one thing I cannot abide. People who call me “young man.” They think it is a compliment. It is not. “Hello, young man, table for 2?” I am old. By saying “young man” you are calling me old. I know I am old. You are trying to be kind, but you are really pointing out how old I am. If you were not friends with someone, you wouldn’t call an overweight guy, “tiny.” Or, a tall guy “shorty.” Or a bald guy “curly.”

So, it is OK to call me a number of things — mister, guy, sir, fella, buddy, pal, amigo, you there. Those are all just fine. But, please, please, don’t ever, ever call me “young man.”