I know everyone means well, but knock it off. Stop the ageism. Stop treating me like I'm ancient.
It all started around the time I turned 40. People would occasionally refer to me as "sir." I never heard that earlier.
"Have a nice day, sir," or "Would you like fries with that, sir, maybe oxygen?"
Then, when I hit 50, the "sirs" became non-stop. It's a given I'm going to be called "sir" anytime I venture out of the house, excepting those flatter moments when I'm called "ma'am."
"Yes, ma'am, complimentary pap smear?"
I've been dubbed "ma'am" while sporting a five-day stubble. I have a very heavy growth, not one of those wimpy girly beards.
What the hell is that about? I don't act like a woman. My wife tells me she's bewildered over these comments, too: "No comprendo, Noah, sir."
"Cute, Gidget."
So, yesterday contained a landmark event. I was checking out of the supermarket and the cashier said, as she finished loading my shopping cart, "Would you like help with this?"
"Sir," I added.
"Wasn't sure 'tweren't 'ma'am.' Yessir, would you like help with this, sir?"
"No, thanks," I said faux cheery, yet I was crestfallen. Help with unsweetened tea, four yogurts (assortment), and Meow Mix Wholesome Goodness?
HELP?
And there I was athletically sneakered.
Bouncy even.
I may be aging on the outside, but I'm still my mischievous, energetic, tot-like self on the inside.
I don't shuffle along.
I don't hum the theme from "Barnaby Jones" or hover thought balloons chocked full of Buddy Ebsen.
I don't bark Bingo numbers in a seersucker Matlock blazer, or collect and swap tales of Melba toasts, or drool much.
If a breeze blows by, cumulus dust clouds shan't emanate from me as I teeter over.
I go minutes without a cobweb.
(Full disclosure: An impure thought of Angela Lansbury in 1973. One.)
I transferred the bag of groceries to the backseat of my automobile.
A ma'am, who looked old enough to be my deceased grandmother and her mallard, approached. She offered assistance, inquiring, "Would you like me to take your buggy, sir?"
"Yes, thank you," I graciously accepted, bestowing my empty cart, which rolled and pulled her to the collection rack a few spaces down the parking asphalt.
I drove home. That was hours ago. She may have wobbled back to her vehicle by now.
I made my way to the bathroom and stared into the mirror.
"Here's looking bifocally at you, kid," I said, syrupy.
Mort, the cat, leaped onto the countertop. He swiveled his head to face mine and spoke, "Methuselah-ow."
