Overheard buying ice cream: “Hey, ya goin' to the Stones concert!?” “Are you kiddin' me?! My grandparents'll be there!”

Then and there, I knew old age had come “knockin.”

I was fast becoming familiar with the rites of passage of senior citizenship such as senior discounts, arthritis and the perpetual outhouse visit.

Like unstored Christmas decorations, a menagerie of brown bottles, not of brew, but of pills of every size, shape and color grace my still mortgaged home. My hairline blinds oncoming traffic. What hasn't disappeared is ashen gray. Hearing loss may soon give me another reason to buy batteries. Luckily, my blurred vision requires only dollar store reading glasses.

As I squeeze the toothpaste tube, I can remember the third act at Woodstock, but not brushing my still natural teeth (knock on porcelain) two minutes earlier.

Alas, I'm too young to retire and too old to start over. Among us workplace baby boomers, a tumultuous and heated competition of whose afflictions are the worst breaks the dull monotony of the salt mine. 9 p.m. once meant clocking in at the local pub where half a dozen OV Splits were ready and waiting. Now, at 9 p.m., an hour of valuable sleep has already been lost.

I've been knighted into the AARP, generating torrents of junk mail for everything from retirement homes to free samples of Viagra. Perusing the brochure, I wonder how mag wheels and flames would look on that senior scooter.

Without hesitation, waitresses ask if I would like a senior menu, but yet the clerk at the liquor store cards me on my wine purchase.

On the road, a speedometer that used to encourage “Power shift, here we go!” now warns “Nearer my God to thee.”

But even though I have butterflies about passing into seniorhood, I know I'll always be a kid to somebody.

Paul N. Luziani

Union Springs