People in the service industry have started calling me “young man.” I’ve heard everything from, “Do you want room for cream, young man?” to, “Young man, is this your pudding?” This has been going on for weeks. Curiously, these are the same people who used called me “sir.”
One of two things is happening here.
Maybe I’ve reached the age that people feel the need to give me insincere flattery. I’m not old. But a John Malkovich hairline and faded Pixies concert tee does not a young man make. That’s a given. In the eyes of a twenty-year-old barista, I suspect that I’m not quite a grandpa but still old enough to pity.
Then there’s the narcissist in me. Maybe the reason people have stopped calling me “sir” and started calling me “young man” is that I’m actually looking quite good these days. Younger, even. Could I be aging in reverse like Benjamin Button?
At first, the thought of growing younger is comforting. My hairline would eventually fill in and my eyesight would return to normal. I’d go down a waist size and increase my vertical leap by at least three inches. Maybe I’d be comfortable wearing a concert tee instead of wondering if I’m too old to be wearing a concert tee.
But before long, growing younger starts to terrify me. In the movie, Brad Pitt turns into a younger Brad Pitt. I’d eventually become Desmond LaVelle circa 1991. His priorities were upside down. He showed almost no respect for his parents. He cared little about school and couldn’t fathom writing anything longer than these 365 words. In short, he was kind of an idiot.
There are things I want to do with my life. Big things. I want to marry my fiancée. I want to refit a boat. I want to write a second book. I want to wear tweed and carry a cane. I have a thousand ambitions best suited for an older version of the current me.
So if the barista wants to pity me, that’s fine. I choose to take comfort in not being his age. You see, I've done the whole idiot thing and honestly, it wasn’t that great.
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About the author: Desmond LaVelle lives in Chicago and works as a copywriter and creative director. He also penned a memoir called Thirteen Cats LaVelle (thirteencatslavelle.com).
