What's the difference between 37 and 100? Not much in my neighborhood, at least as it pertains to age. To my college age neighbors I likely seem an ancient 37. Yesterday, I got out the door a little later than usual for my morning walk so I was walking among students heading to Salisbury University for class. A blond bicycle gang, more Mean Girls than Hell's Angels, rolled past trailing a cloud of perfume and smug indifference. Athletes jogged by making my "fitness" walk look meager and pointless. Surrounded by hoodies and skateboards, pony tails and short shorts, I felt as awkward and uncool as I did when I actually attended the university twenty years ago.
The students eyed me warily. My first generation iPod may as well have been a Walkman, my white daddy sneakers sandals with black socks. My backpack, worn to keep my pockets free of keys, phone and wallet, had them wondering whether I was an old student or some sort of creeper. I'd have been less conspicuous had I donned a trench coat and shouted "Pervert Alert. Pervert Alert."
I spotted an older gentleman, maybe mid-50's, walking on the opposite sidewalk. I searched his eyes for a hint of old man solidarity only to be spurned. His eyes conveyed not solidarity, but contempt as he lumped me in with the other backpack-toters. I longed to stop him and explain that I was not one of the punks that pukes in his yard every weekend. That I don't leave the neighborhood covered in broken beer bottles. I'm on his side. Alas, I stayed silent as he blew past. But my encounter brought me to my senses. Why did I care what these kids thought? I chastised myself for ever feeling awkward and uncool even when I was in school. The heck with these kids. And the heck with that older guy. No longer a young punk and not yet an old man, it's my time to feel comfortable right where I am. But those damn kids better stay off of my lawn.
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