The M Word

Photo by Ambro/freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Ambro/freedigitalphotos.net

I had never met a four-letter word I didn’t like — under the right circumstances — until that one day, on the cusp of my 40th birthday, when the 12-year-old Vons checker dared to speak the most offensive word of them all.

“Need help out to your car, ma’am?”

Who me? Ma’am? When did that happen?

He didn’t even have a southern accent.

#@*&! When did that happen?

It seems like just days ago, at that very same Vons, when I had just had my wisdom teeth out and that cute Box Boy in my Geometry class helped me out with my single bag of groceries. I was sure he was going to ask me to the Homecoming Dance, swollen face and all.

Then he asked if I had an older sister at San Marcos. He didn’t even recognize me!

How did I go from that kind of minor adolescent humiliation to the adult-sized humiliation of ma’am?

It must have happened around the same time our neighbors stopped noticing when we had parties. Somewhere around the same time our friends stopped hooking up then breaking up and started getting married and divorced.

Growing old gracefully is highly over-rated.

At my 20th high school reunion, all of the friends I had stayed in touch with looked wonderful that night, but everyone else — who were still 18 in my mind — looked old, fat and gray.

#@*&! When did that happen?

Is this what it’s like to finally be a grown up? You blow out the candles on your 16th birthday cake and the next thing you know you’re blowing out an “over the hill” candle at your 40th birthday, because to actually put 40 candles on would take a much bigger cake!

I’ve still got the lollipop on my desk that says “40 Sucks.”

Now that I’m approaching 45 and that lollipop’s getting rather dusty, I can say with some authority that it doesn’t really suck. At least not most of the time.

For the most part my friends aren’t aging any more gracefully than I am. Although none have bought Ferrari’s or dated 19-year-old supermodels, I’m sure that’s only because they can’t afford them. We talk a lot more about our corns and bunions and a lot less about our sex lives.

At a recent 40th birthday party, a friend announced he had taken up surfing, even though he can barely swim. Another spent the week at a dude ranch, finally getting back on that horse after a few disastrous childhood attempts.

What I want to know is when did surfing and riding horses become daring, and golf become the sport of choice for people my age? When did I stop relating to the teens on Gossip Girl and start relating to their parents? Is this what it feels like to sit at the grown up table?

I’ve heard people say that “old” is about 15 years older than you are, which sounds about right. Until I realize this makes me “old” to that Box Boy and even to many of my colleagues.

I guess I should have clued in last year, when I told one of my young colleagues about the amazing Pearl Jam concert I had seen the night before.

His comment: “That’s so cool. I hope I’m still going to concerts when I’m your age.”

What am I, 55?

I’ve been going to concerts since before you were born, you little whippersnapper!

I wonder what he’d say if he knew I was online trying to buy Stone Temple Pilots tickets?

“Wow, they’re still around,” said a teenage intern. “My dad used to love them back when he was in college.”

Is this possible?

Oh #@*&!

At least he didn’t call me ma’am.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 5, 2008.

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