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You Know You’re Getting Old When. . .

It was recently my birthday, and in sending me best wishes my younger brother explained that: “At a certain stage it is no longer ‘happy birthday’ it is just ‘birthday.'” While I tend to agree with that statement, I feel no particular angst at getting older. However, I recently discovered a more worrying marker of aging, other than gray (and fewer) hairs, that made me reconsider.

I was in a supermarket and realized that not only did I recognize the music playing, I liked it. Lest you think this was some hip place that lays food items out in straw and uses artistically hand-drawn signage, I can assure you it was not.
[Indeed such a place would be playing classical music not the classic rock that I recognized.]

This makes me feel almost as old as learning those new CD thingies are thirty years old.


Food items in straw, muzak turned to the classical channel, and those artsy signs are probably a good marker that you are overpaying for your groceries. You would not catch Sam Walton merchandising with such foo-foo nonsense.

I can (try to) claim that gray hairs make me look more distinguished, wise, and mature, I can see no such benefit in appreciating supermarket music.

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