I'm Not Paranoid, But Everybody Thinks I Am

If life was a baseball game, I’d estimate I’m now in the top of the 7th inning. And that’s concerning. Oh sure, there’s still plenty of ballgame left to be played, but there are also unmistakable signs we’re nearing the end. I mean, they’re going to stop selling beer soon (because they’ve decided we’ve had enough), and a few folks are already filing out to beat the traffic. The fact that I’m down four runs, with a slumping offense and an unpredictable bullpen, doesn’t help whatsoever.

Yep, It’s no longer a joke. I’ve been yukking it up about “getting old” for several years now, but it’s not so funny anymore. I have now arrived at the place I’d been pretending to be for comedic effect.  

And it’s freaking me out a little, if you want to know the truth. Not so much about getting old, exactly. But about running out of time. I have a lot of stuff I want to do before I ground into that proverbial game-ending double-play. I don’t mind being old really, I just need more days. That’s at the root of my anxiety.

However… I’m also starting to notice that people are treating me differently, and I don’t care for that at all. At least I believe it’s happening. My wife, Toney, says most of it’s in my head and I’m “ridiculous.” And that kind of treatment, I’m happy to report, has nothing to do with age. It’s been going on for decades.

But, let me know what you think of this. When I’m at the grocery store, and go to use the self-checkout, some oily youngster will often saunter over and ask if I need help. Why? Why would he think that I (in particular) would need help? Is it because I have gray hair and therefore couldn’t possibly be savvy enough to navigate their complex onion-weighing machine? Man, that really frosts my flakes. “Step away, you little zit-spangled shit,” I always tell him with my eyes. And the saunter turns into a sudden scamper.

Also, during Covid many restaurants stopped furnishing menus, and asked patrons to scan a QR code instead. And I’d get the same treatment: an assumption that I wouldn’t know how to do it. But, even worse, some hosts or hostesses wondered if I even owned a smartphone. Because ol’ Pops is surely stuck in 1978. I mean, you know how those old people are. At best he probably has one of those flip-phones with the giant numbers and a big red panic button at the bottom. Or maybe he just has a CB radio clipped to the waistband of his size XL Depends dribble-trappers? Oh, it never failed to trigger the Withering Squint of Disdain.

But the thing is, young people see everyone over the age of 35 or 40 as old. I can remember how it is. There were teachers I had in high school who seemed ancient, and they’re still alive 40 years later. How is that possible? They had one foot in the afterlife during the early 1980s! Yet they had to be younger than I am now. So, maybe I should cut the little judgmental pricks some slack? …Nah. That’s not going to happen.

I’m also noticing that I’m becoming self-conscious, on high alert for words or phrases that might reinforce the notion that I’m an old coot. Recently, on my podcast, I was talking about midnight snacks, and mentioned apple butter. Later in the same episode I said something about loving Fresca and how it’s becoming harder to find. Afterward I started to panic a bit. Apple butter and Fresca. Is that old people food?! I think it might be! I’ve got to be more careful. I can’t just go around throwing up red flags all willy-nilly. And willy-nilly! Is that codger speak too?! Man, I’m getting all up in my head with this stuff. It’s no way to live.

But we have the 7th inning stretch coming up in the not-too-distant future. I don’t really know what that signifies in my labored analogy. Empty nest? Retirement? It’s definitely some kind of fresh start, a re-set of sorts. But it’s also closer to the end. And I’m sure I’ll be bitching about the fact they don’t sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” anymore and might inadvertently use the phrase “back in my day.” That will cause me to spiral further and eventually an usher (who looks like he’s 14 years old) will come over to see if there’s something the matter. Then he’ll address me as “sir” and that’ll piss me right off, which won’t help matters at all.

Do you see the trap I’m in?

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