Monday, November 28, 2011
It is always nice to know that young people respect their elders. But it is a little jarring when the elder is you.
When I returned from the grocery store this morning a very attractive young woman was parking her car also. She could see I was struggling to carry all my grocery bags and she offered to help. I accepted her offer and we soon realized that I was going to the apartment building while she had a job interview in the connected office building. Determining that she wasn’t going to the same place, I thanked her for her offer and took the grocery bags back. I wished her luck in her interview and she replied: “Thank you, sir.”
SIR??!!
I realize this woman is probably roughly the same age as my daughter (who will be 25 on her next birthday) but no man likes a pretty girl to call him “sir.” I am sure her father is probably younger than I am, and I almost certainly look every bit of my 56 years (even typing it hurts), but inside my head I am still 21. Her offer of assistance was given to what, in her mind, was an old man struggling to carry his meager groceries, probably containing cat food, bought with his social security check. “Sir” was the polite equivalent to “old-timer.”
Of course the “sir” thing happens all the time now. Most of the time I like it. Young people in New York (far less rude than those in Connecticut) often offer to hold open a door, or let me through the subway turnstyle first. Waiters routinely call me “sir” to show they think an old guy like me might be burning through the last of his pension and therefore willing to be a big tipper, while waitresses often call me “hon” or something similar, the way you might address your addled uncle who wants to regale you with stories of the good old days when gas was a quarter and album covers were cool.
I accept that I am well into eligibility for AARP, that I live off a pension, and that stairs sometimes make my knees bark. But I sure don’t like feeling like an old man. So most of the time I just don’t think about it. And then somebody goes ahead and calls me “sir.”
When I returned from the grocery store this morning a very attractive young woman was parking her car also. She could see I was struggling to carry all my grocery bags and she offered to help. I accepted her offer and we soon realized that I was going to the apartment building while she had a job interview in the connected office building. Determining that she wasn’t going to the same place, I thanked her for her offer and took the grocery bags back. I wished her luck in her interview and she replied: “Thank you, sir.”
SIR??!!
I realize this woman is probably roughly the same age as my daughter (who will be 25 on her next birthday) but no man likes a pretty girl to call him “sir.” I am sure her father is probably younger than I am, and I almost certainly look every bit of my 56 years (even typing it hurts), but inside my head I am still 21. Her offer of assistance was given to what, in her mind, was an old man struggling to carry his meager groceries, probably containing cat food, bought with his social security check. “Sir” was the polite equivalent to “old-timer.”
Of course the “sir” thing happens all the time now. Most of the time I like it. Young people in New York (far less rude than those in Connecticut) often offer to hold open a door, or let me through the subway turnstyle first. Waiters routinely call me “sir” to show they think an old guy like me might be burning through the last of his pension and therefore willing to be a big tipper, while waitresses often call me “hon” or something similar, the way you might address your addled uncle who wants to regale you with stories of the good old days when gas was a quarter and album covers were cool.
I accept that I am well into eligibility for AARP, that I live off a pension, and that stairs sometimes make my knees bark. But I sure don’t like feeling like an old man. So most of the time I just don’t think about it. And then somebody goes ahead and calls me “sir.”
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Miles - Just accept that a pretty woman was willing to talk to you, and carry your stuff. At least she didn't think you were a serial killer, or worse - someone who would tell her stories of when gas was a quarter.
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