Am I An Old Guy?

Well, crap. It hit me the other day. Am I getting old?

Yesterday, I saw a kid on the sidewalk, hair hanging in his face. I was tempted to yell, "Get a haircut!" Gah! Pure instinct, I couldn't help it. I'm turning into that cranky old neighbor I used to make fun of.

Strange things are happening to my body. My scalp is follicularly-challenged, but the hair seems to be migrating toward other peculiar areas. Never have I seen such growth in my ears and my nostrils. Dang bushy, even. Get out the weed-whacker and call it not pretty.

Bumps, aches, creaks and cracks are making their presence known. I'm turning into a walking David Cronenberg biological horror film. The need for embarrassing over-the-counter medicine is upon me. Is it wrong of me (and too prideful) to pay off my daughter to go buy "Preparation H?"

Knees crack when I walk upstairs. My eyebrows are looking like Andy Rooney's backyard. I have wrinkles on my elbows, for God's sake, the least wrinkly of the wrinkliest place in the world! And I'm getting crabbier. Being crabby is the first sign of aging, I think. Bah. You kids get offa' my lawn!

Here's the problem, though. I'm still a juvenile twelve-year-old at heart. Body gas (no matter from what orifice) is still funny. I like alternative rock. Much to my daughter's embarrassment, I fist-bump her pals.

Not too long ago, I had a Hallelujah moment. Buying a six-pack of beer at Quik-Trip, I was carded. The clerk actually asked for my I.D. I grabbed her hand, shook it, smiled, damn near jumped over the counter and kissed her. Her response upon seeing my driver's license? She laughed. Not a laugh with me, mind you. A laugh AT me. Whatever. I had my brief, shining moment of youth, as brief as it was.

In my mind, I'm still twelve; a hard-living rock star. The body doesn't agree, but what does it know? Dang whipper-snapper.