In the elevator at the hotel where we are staying for three days I kibbitz with the other passenger about elevator operators. “We’re old enough to remember those days,” they joke.
This other passenger is demonstrably older than me; not my parents’ age, but surely not my age either? But I am greeted as kin.
And I do remember those days.
I’m in the colourful livingroom of a friend where an evening of loud electronic music is about to begin. The demonstrably younger person sitting beside me leans over: “Hey, are you Dan’s father?”
I’m not.
But how did they know I was anyone’s father. Do I look old enough to be someone’s father? What’s my tell? Receding hairline? Style from the 1950s? Unsmooth skin? A withered gait? A careless Dick Van Dyke Show reference?
On balance I have always loved getting older. But inflection points, man.