The first time someone called me “sir,” I looked behind me.
Surely a man stood there in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase. Someone who understood his insurance policy. Someone who came into the store specifically to buy sensible trousers.
There was nobody behind me.
They meant me.
I’m still working through that.
I’m Generation X. Technically, I’m in my fifties, but I don’t see myself as old. Somewhere inside me is the same young man who could stay out all night and still have plans for the following morning.
He’s still there.
He just doesn’t make the schedule anymore.
These days, the idea of drinking all night sounds like something I would need to recover from financially, physically, and spiritually. Tell me the party starts at ten, and my first question is, “In the morning?”
Because at ten at night, I have already made several commitments to being comfortable.
But “sir”?
I’m not that old.
Yes, I make a few extra noises when I sit down. And when I get up.
Sometimes a small sound comes out in the middle, as my body considers whether we’ve made the right decision.
I don’t remember agreeing to this soundtrack.
I used to stand up and go somewhere. Now I stand up and give a brief statement.
Still, I feel young.
I’m even ready to throw hands if the need arises.
Although I would appreciate knowing in advance. I need the right shoes on, and I’d prefer we settle whatever this is before dinner.
I’ve accepted other truths.
I love the wagon I use to take out my trash.
Love it.
There was a time when I might have carried everything in one trip just to prove I could. Now I load that wagon with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has solved a problem.
Let the young people demonstrate their strength.
I have wheels.
And my slip-in, no-tie shoes? Those are a gift.
I step into them, and we get on with our day. No bending down. No negotiations with my back. No little bow I have to make before I’m allowed to leave the house.
I didn’t realize how much resentment I had been carrying toward shoelaces until someone offered me another way.
Apparently, this is where my rebellion has led.
Then there’s the music.
I love hearing songs from my teenage years over the speakers while I’m shopping. A familiar song comes on, and suddenly I’m smiling, remembering who I was the first time I heard it.
For a moment, I feel young.
Then I realize the store is using music from my youth to help people choose produce more comfortably.
That requires a minute.
I came in for onions. I wasn’t prepared to confront the passage of time beside the bell peppers.
And somewhere during this emotional event, a young employee asks, “Can I help you find anything, sir?”
Yes.
The person I was before you finished that sentence.
Of course, they’re being polite. I know that. I appreciate good manners.
I just didn’t expect to be the one receiving them so soon.
In my mind, fifty-something still leaves room for a little mystery. A little danger. The possibility that I might do something spontaneous.
And I might.
I could go somewhere without checking the parking first.
Let’s not rule anything out.
Maybe I am becoming more mature. Maybe I’m finally learning that feeling young doesn’t require making every decision my younger self would have made.
I can enjoy the song without staying out until sunrise.
I can take care of my back without apologizing to it.
I can let someone call me “sir” and accept the kindness in it, even if a small part of me still wants a second opinion.
I’m still me. There’s plenty of life left, plenty to laugh about, and apparently a growing appreciation for things that roll.
So go ahead. Call me sir.
Just give me a moment to stand up.
There’s usually a sound first.
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Resources for Hard Times
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