Accusations of old age might be a bit true

“Is someone in your party, like, over 55?”

And just like that, some well-meaning, little, wet-behind-the-ears 20-something waitress ruined the party, aka, dinner for my husband and me the other night.

Fifty-five? What in the …?


Immediately, I heard a woman’s voice (which sounded exactly like mine, BT Dubs) say, in a very irritated manner, “Does one of the people in this duo LOOK older than 55?”

Yes, I purposely corrected her grammar. Old age makes you indignant that way.

I found the literal finger pointing to be unnecessarily hurtful, not to mention immensely premature.

My mind was screaming out: “Fifty-five? Well, I never! Of all the nerve. Do you know how long it will be until I’m flipping 55?”

But then my brain corrected her. “Uh, about five years and two days, actually, so simmer your decaying self down.”

OK, fine, I admit it. I’m about to dive into a new decade. The one that makes me a half-century old, yo. #AintFiftyNifty

Still. Did she have to just haphazardly toss it up in the air like so much pizza dough, for Pete’s sake? Sensing my ire, she spit out some more supportive drivel.

“Oh, um, I was just like tryin’ to help you all out. There’s like, you know, discounts and stuff for, like, you all senior citizens, that’s all,” she said.

All my husband heard was discount. “What? Wait, I’m over 55!” he said almost giddily. Oh, the things men won’t do for a free soda. #Pathetic

But not I, my friends. I was still absorbing the sting of the figurative throat punch. I could barely breathe. There it was. The senior citizens indictment. Just, wow.

And also, grrr.

It was the first time anyone had actually hurled the phrase at us aloud.

Being accused of the double-nickel mark is one thing, but as if that wasn’t insult enough, she had to go and open the door to the Home for the Decrepitly Aged — where only fossils dwell.

Obviously, Kerry and I looked like well-established residents. Or at least, one of us did. Senior citizens. Sheesh! #TooFarMissy

I focused hard through my bifocals to shoot her the death glare, to which she replied, “Um, is there something in your eye, ma’am? Do you need help?” and handed me one of those fall button thingys.

If I had the upper body strength, I’d have thrown it right at her perky little person.


So here it is. The last column of my 40s. I won’t waste it focusing on the fact that my hair is gray. Or thinning. Or both.

Or that my once marathon-worthy frame is now flabby and doughnut-shaped.

Or that I can’t run or jump or kneel or even sit for very long without sparking severe sciatica.

Or that my skin is dry and flaky and covered in brown splotches — and has more creases than a Shar-Pei puppy.

Or that my veins look like a road map of the U.S. #OldAgeIsntforSissies

Nope. Instead, I’m going to point out the two best things about being 50:

No. 2: It comes with the realization that growing old is a privilege not granted to everyone and that I should be thankful for it — and every other gift with which God has blessed me: faith, family, friends, health, home, work, the best boxer on Planet Earth and LOVE. #EveryDayIsAGift

No. 1: I ain’t 60, yo.

Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist who is getting a little long in the tooth. Send her magnifying glasses, prunes, Ensure and that neat Sock Slider gadget as you check out her blog