In America, the average male lives to be 75.6 years old. As a 25-year-old, I plan on having many years left before I leave the impression of my butt in that great big comfy couch in the sky.
To most people, I would be considered young. I just became able to rent a car this year. Many people would still call me “kid” despite the fact that I am not either a child or a young goat. I have only been out of college for three years and have not yet reached the point where my body parts creek or groan when I move.
Apparently, not everyone received the memo that I am a vibrant young man.
I was at work when the young lady walked up to me. I was pretty sure I knew what she wanted. I do not mean to brag, but I am fairly certain that, had I not married, I would be at the top of literally thousands of eligible bachelor lists. Since I am married, you cannot prove me wrong, so deal with that.
“Excuse me. Could I use a pen?” she said. One of my many talents is sharing. I am a fantastic sharer so I handed her a nice BIC ballpoint. No way was she touching my black clicky pen. That is my pen and I make no apologies for it. She might steal it or, at the very least, get it all germed up. I may be a great sharer, but I am not an idiot.
She quickly used the pen, then handed it back to me. As I reached up, it came out of her mouth.
Sir? I looked behind me to see who was there. Maybe a respected and distinguished person had stepped behind me and she was thanking him for some sort of unrelated thing. Perhaps she had misspoken, meaning so say, “Thanks… certainly you are a great person,” but accidentally stopping midway through the second word.
I was a bit thrown off. I frequently call females of any age (and sometimes even my dog) “ma’am.” Sir, though, seems to set off a certain connotation, that connotation being, “You look like you’re my dad’s age.” I did not feel like I was much older than this young lady. To confirm this, I asked a coworker her age.
She was 24. For those keeping score at home, that is only one year younger than me!
I immediately felt insecure. In my mind, I felt crow’s feet pop up around my eyes. In fact, I had wrinkles everywhere. My face looked like a very pale baseball glove that had been buried in dirt for the last fifteen years then run over by a series of rampaging elephants. I immediately balded and I knew for a fact that I was beginning to get liver spots on my face.
I needed a way to be young and fast. Literally every second I waited, I was getting older.
I thought about extensive plastic surgery. A chin lift and some cheek implants would turn that clock all the way back to 2011 when I was just a 24-year-old kid. Maybe some Botox. I never really enjoyed facial expressions anyway.
I could get some hair plugs and a personal trainer. Spend some time tanning. Hire a stylist In a few short months, I would look like this:
Then I calculated up the cost. It turns out looking like that would cost me somewhere around $85,000. It may be hard to believe, but I do not have that just lying around.
I guess I have no choice but to continue to age until, one day, I croak. That is how life works. I guess looking incredibly old has its benefits. For instance, I will be able to get the senior citizen’s discount at 30. By the time I am 40, I will probably look old enough that I can convince someone I am old enough to retire and that they should pay me pension. Who will argue with a 95-year-old man anyway?
Yes, premature aging has its advantages. Besides, it finally gives me a reason to complain about today’s youths. They are far too raucous and upsetting.
Especially the ones who call me “sir.”