Many of us have passed our 60th birthday, but our minds refuse to acknowledge this inevitable march of time. Some of us have entered the age of “Septuagenarian” and reject the idea that we inhabit a depreciating asset – our bodies. Our brain believes what walks below it is still 30 or maybe 40 years old, but we are certainly not “elderly,” regardless of what our grandchildren or our government says. At the gym, I can still do four sets of 15 reps on the bench press, but the weight is far below my efforts in college. I can still hop to accelerate my heart rate, but I only jump if I am scared out of my skin.
My point? Many of us refuse to “Let the Old Man In,” as Clint Eastwood has said. We brazenly face each day thinking we’re as young as we were the day before.
It is with this mindset that I recently entered an H.E.B. grocery store in New Braunfels, Texas, to purchase three items. I was certain a shopping cart would not be necessary. As I collected my bag of chips, distilled water, and a plastic box of picture hangers, I remembered I needed two more items. Five was still a manageable number. I don’t need a cart or one of those wimpy plastic carryalls – besides, I have played a lot of baseball, was a catcher, a leading hitter, and have excellent eye-hand coordination. I may be approaching my 75th birthday, but I am still not “old” by any standard – especially mine.
As I boldly stepped forward where septuagenarians fear to go – “Self-checkout,” I dropped the plastic box of picture hangers. The box landed on one of its corners, sprang open, and eleventeen thousand hangers and nails of 73 different sizes exploded across the tile floor.
“Incredulous” is a word I learned in high school but never fully appreciated its meaning until that moment. “Chagrin” is another word I learned but, until now, had never seen it displayed so vividly on 50 faces simultaneously. Much to the chagrin of my fellow shoppers and H.E.B. management, I had “let the old man in.”
Texas hospitality sprang into action as three fine fellows (all under 40) joined me on the floor to retrieve my escaping miscreants. One guy even came back to me from around the corner of an adjacent aisle, handing me a nail, saying, “Here’s another one.”
My shame knew no bounds. It was compounded further by hearing some compassionate soul mutter, “Why didn’t that old man get a cart?!”
I paid for my treasures, silently sneaked out of the store, and slipped into the night, wondering if I should stay home on my 75th birthday.
William R. Kohler
New Braunfels, TX
January 25, 2024