How Old Will I Be?

Call me strange. Call me neurotic. Obsessive. Quirky. Sick. Want to see me with that “deer in the headlights” look in my eyes? Ask me how old I am and I become paralyzed as I start searching for a way to escape. I want to lie…and I keep that option open. But what I really want is to ask you, “Is there a reason you need to know?”

I despise those questionnaires that we all have to fill out almost on a daily basis.. Name, Address, City, State, Zip, Phone Number, Cell Phone Number, Email Address, Date of Birth. Whoa! Back up the truck there, Pete! Date of Birth?? Date of Birth???This inquiry causes me to break out in a cold sweat—Who wants to know? Why? Do I have to answer this question? I look around to see if anyone is watching. My hands tremble. My heart races. My breathing becomes shallow. My mouth goes dry. All color drains from my face. Tears begin to run down my cheeks. Slobber trickles down my chin. I’m in the throes of a full-blown panic attack.

Come on…Do you really need to know how old I am to sign up for your free newsletter? Does my age matter if I am opening a bank account? Or applying for yet another credit card? I mean, these people can plug my name into Google and find out more about me than even I want to know. My age should be low on their priority list.

I suggest that we stop asking that horrible, intrusive question. If it is a legal issue, just ask, “Are you of legal age to sign a binding contract in your state or locality?” If relevant, ask simply, “Are you over the age of 18?”

Again, I raise the query, “Who wants to know and why do they care?”

At what age will I start bragging about my age…again?

I was in line behind a little lady the other day. I was really quite annoyed with her anyway. As she took each item out of her cart, she folded it nicely and handed it to the cashier along with an explanation of why she felt compelled to purchase each article. “This rug will go beautifully with the wallpaper in my bathroom. This kitchen towel is exactly what I’ve been looking for. I collect chickens, you know.” On and on and on. Finally, as eternity was just ringing the last bell, she was finished. Did she pay by credit card like the rest of us? Oh, no! She pulled out her checkbook and started digging in her antique bag for a pen. “How do you spell Value City? Does it have an ‘e’? Is it one word or two?” (I’m thinking, “Who gives a care? Just sign the check.”)

Then, of course, the cashier had to ask for an ID. (Now, have you ever wondered why they do this? How does a photo ID affirm if the check is good? Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask for a copy of your last bank statement? Prove you actually have the cash to back up the check?) Of course, my little old annoying lady had to dig in her purse to find her wallet. As she handed over her driver’s license (yeah, that in itself is scary), she remarked that she would be 90 years old on Tuesday.

Don’t we quit saying that when we are 12? “I’ll be 13 next week.” Those were the days when we just could not wait to be one year older. I don’t remember the last time I was inclined to say, “I’ll be ___ years old next week.” I can’t imagine when I will be ready to say it again.

Perhaps when I am 89, I will have reached the age once again that I just can’t wait to be one year older.