That Awkward Moment You Realize You’re the Old Fogey

Tales of a GenX curmudgeon

I turned 50 recently. Lots of mixed feelings accompanied this milestone birthday. Don’t get me wrong. I’m really thankful for making it to age 50 and remaining relatively healthy. Aches, pains, perimenopause — these are my biggest health issues. After losing a few friends my age in the past five years to various illnesses, it’s not lost on me how important it is to be grateful for one’s health.

Turning 50 has also brought into sharp relief that there remain hopes and dreams yet unrealized in my life. I had many goals that fizzled out or crept to the back burner. Things I wanted to accomplish but just didn’t get around to yet.

I’ve reconciled these wistful thoughts by having a little meeting with myself about what I want for the future. At the beginning of January, I ditched social media for now. Working on a healthier outlook for the second half of my life feels good these days. I’m recalibrating. Reinventing myself.

However, with mixed feelings managed, an inescapable truth has presented itself. I hadn’t quite realized it at first, but have fully come to realize something rather shocking.

I’m the old fogey. You know the one.

Excuse me, young lady

I have had an increasingly difficult time differentiating the new hires from the students at the high school where I work. One such new teacher was walking down the hall in a lovely dress, and I commented on it. “You look so pretty today. What’s the special occasion?” How friendly and nice of me to notice and encourage a young girl, right? Build up the sisterhood!

The quizzical look she gave me told the story. To my horror, I spoke aloud my sheepish realization. “You’re a teacher, aren’t you?” She nodded, laughed, and smiled. A young, wrinkle-free smile.

Since this gaffe a couple of years ago, the new teachers look younger and younger. I’m at the point where I wish they’d wear their ID badges conspicuously. Then, I could be sure of whether to greet them collegially or ask them for a hall pass.

Early bird special

I’ve been known to stand outside a restaurant at 5:00 PM waiting for it to open. The earlier, the better. Then I can eat and get home and get into my pajamas. For the love of all that is sacred, please don’t invite me out for an 8:00 PM dinner. That’s practically bedtime.

After a long work week, it’s hard to imagine going home, getting changed, and heading out after 7:00 PM for anything. Unless it’s a super special occasion or an emergency, it’s not happening.

Cut out that racket!

I don’t know what it is anymore, but I can’t stand loud noise. When we watch a movie, I have to ask my kids to turn down the stereo. I don’t like busy restaurants blasting music with lots of activity and loud conversations. Heavy traffic, announcements over the school loudspeaker, and the rattling of the copy machine drive me crazy.

The exception is that I will blast Van Halen and Tears for Fears with the windows down at a deafening volume on a nice day. Because the 80s cannot ever be loud enough. Ever.

Into the darkness, yet blinded by the light

It’s official. I’ve crossed over from not liking night driving to being marginally afraid of it. The dark is too dark, and the lights go all starburst because of my glasses and astigmatism. Oh, and I am actually developing a cataract. Doctor said no need for surgery on it…yet.

When I have to drive at night, especially in an unfamiliar location, I struggle with anxiety and strain to see. I recently dropped off family at the airport and drove home at 5:30 AM in the rain. It was awful. My regular exit off the highway was closed, and I white knuckled my way through a circuitous route home.

Best foot forward

Gone are the days of high heels and shoes that pinch. To heck with “beauty is pain” and other such nonsense. Comfort is the name of the game. I need arch support and cushion. Wedges are my new go-to for dressy shoes. Flip flops must have ergonomic merit and cost more than $.99 if they plan on being on my feet.

I used to love wearing Chuck Taylors. What else captures the whimsy of youth like colorful high-top and low-top Converse? These days, Saucony is my best friend because my herniated and bulging discs need little provocation for misbehaving. My solution is to buy them in vibrant colors so I can still keep that essence of playfulness in my footwear.

Last-century life

More often than I’d like to admit, I find myself grumbling about how much better things were in the old days. Twentieth-century living unencumbered by smartphones and the barrage of 24/7 news and information was so much better.

And then there are my archaic skills. I can read a paper map, write in cursive, dial a rotary phone, reset a dot-matrix printer’s paper feed, and fix a cassette tape with a pencil. I know how to surreptitiously pass a paper note and use a phonebook too. Of course, today’s modern world places little value on such antiquated practices.

As I think about being 50 in a different century than I was born in, I can’t help but acknowledge my old fogey status. There’s more life behind me than ahead, and I’m looking rounder, grayer, and more wrinkled than I used to. But I’m grateful. I can remember the good old days but use today’s technology. I can wear a slip and/or pantyhose if I want to, but it’s no longer de rigueur.

I relish the wisdom and experience I’ve gained. This old fogey knows who she is and has no problem speaking up for herself. Ruthlessly setting boundaries and guarding my schedule against things that don’t suit me has become my midlife habit. I’m coming more into my own each year.

These youngsters don’t know how good it is to be me.

Thank you for reading! Tracy is a New Jersey writer who loves Earl Grey tea and spending time in nature. Please follow me on Medium to stay connected. Not a member of Medium? Click HERE to become one and get unlimited reads while supporting writers. Please click here to see my line of printed goods on Amazon.