You Know You're Getting Old...

I've heard it said before that age is just a number. I've also recently become aware of the fact that my own personal number is steadily increasing.

 

However, I'm not too worried about it. My plan is simple. It involves aging gracefully, like a fine wine. According to this plan, I'll only get better from here!

I'd like to think that, thus far, I have managed to achieve my goal.

Regardless, I have managed to compile a brief list of personal experiences that have made me realize that I am, whether gracefully or not, getting old.

With that being said, you know you're getting old when..

When the flower girl at your wedding posts college graduation photos of herself on Facebook.

When your wife starts talking about a gray streak in your hair that you were not previously aware of or seen for yourself.

When first-graders say, "Whoa! You're older than my grandma (or grandpa), Mr. Haworth!"

When your wife announces on your 19th wedding anniversary, "Whew! This marriage has been the longest 45 years of my life!"

When your son tells you your "wings" are coming along nicely.

When your knees pop louder than a soda can every time you stand up.

When the holes in your jeans have run their course.

Come on, you all know what I mean! The holes start at the knees for young kids. Young adults accrue holes in the butt first. As you age more, I've discovered, the holes appear first in the pockets!

When, according to my father-in-law, you're thinking, "You know, 70 really doesn't seem that old."

Reasoning with Six Year-Olds

I simply can't hold back any longer. Originally, I told my wife and friends that I would not write about work, but I just can't adhere to that promise. Since I started working as a teacher's assistant, I've heard some funny things and had funny things happen to me.

In fact, just earlier today, one of our little girls got sick on the playground. Normally when that happens, it's my job to get them to the office so someone can come and pick them up. I diligently wiped everything she touched with a disinfectant wipe. Then, we made our way to the office.

"Well," I said along the way. "It seems you may have a stomach bug."

"I don't have a bug in my stomach, Mr. Haworth," she said with wide-eyed horror. I had to explain to her what that meant and reassure her that I didn't think she had an actual bug inside her stomach.

There have been numerous kids to ask me how old I am. One of the boys, however, phrased it a little differently by asking me "Are you old, Mr. Haworth?"

"I guess so," I answered with a shrug. "I'm 43 years old."

A long, resonating, bug-eyed "whoa" was his only response. My wife, who is two years younger than I, has had her children tell her "you're older than my grandma!"

One of my favorite incidents happened two days ago with one of my students immediately following a math lesson.

"Mr. Haworth," she said with a most curious look on her face. "What is that on your finger?"
"It's a ring. It's my wedding band."
"You're married?" she responded, amazement burning bright on her face.
"Yes, I'm married."
"How old are you," she then asked.
"I'm 43. I'll be 44 in March," I said. Her jaw dropped. "I have a son who's older than you are. He's 14."
"I thought you said you were 43, Mr. Haworth... And married... He should be about nine."

I tried to explain to her that he is indeed 14, but you try reasoning with a first-grader. While I'm still trying to figure out where I went wrong with that math lesson, she's still telling her classmates that, not only am I married, but I have a nine year-old son to boot.

The funniest thing to happen occurred only about three weeks in to the new job. And a word to the wise -- watch out for the girls. Their observations and inquisitiveness will simply astound you.

"You're not fooling anybody changing your tie like that, Mr Haworth," said one of our girls. When I started the job, I wore button-downs and ties every day in hopes of making a good impression.

"We know you're wearing the same shirt over and over again," she informed me. "Changing your tie isn't fooling anyone."

I told her I wasn't wearing the same shirt. She stood there, arms folded with a look of suspicion on her face. I tried to reason with her by explaining the subtle difference between that day's shirt and the previous day's shirt. They did look similar, I'll admit. However, as I've said, there is no such thing as reasoning with a six year-old.

"Oh, Mr Haworth," she said with a look of misgiving and shaking her head. One would think I was trying to pull one over on her. "You need to ask your momma... Or your wife to buy you some new shirts."