OK, BOOMER.

You know what’s great about old people?  Neither do I.

Before the one old person who accidentally stumbles across this post while trying to FaceTime a grandchild berates me in the comment section, he or she should know I’m eligible for Medicare in 9 months.

A couple of years ago, while shopping for walking shoes that possibly might, but probably wouldn’t help curb my plantar fasciitis in both heels, I had the pleasure of being waited on by Troy.  After selecting my shoes, I stepped away from the counter to find some socks.  When I returned, I noticed he was dealing with a geriatric couple from retail hell.  He rushed over to check me out and I told him I’d be happy to go to another register so he could continue waiting on Mr. and Mrs. Bitchinanmoanin.  His gratitude was palpable.

ATTENTION SENIOR SHOPPERS!  People who work retail are not there for you to abuse.  They are overworked and underpaid and YOUR sense of entitlement makes Millennials look like the offspring of Gandhi and Mother Teresa.

This week I checked out at the grocery store and the checkout clerk asked if the products not separated by the bar thingie were mine.  The old guy they belonged to barked at her, “Use your power of observation!  Look how wide the gap is!”

She became flustered and started screwing up my shit.  I said something to him and he said I must be a wife.  I said that I was not, I took care of that problem.  He decided that I must be his new best friend.  He said I should go hang out at the senior center in town.  I indignantly wanted to know how old he thought I was while wondering just how fucking old I look to someone who is not my mirror.  He mentioned that if he were to put on his psychology hat, he’d find out some interesting things about me.  I told him I was already psychoanalyzing him, but didn’t mention my diagnosis was narcissistic personality disorder combined with a small dick.  Sound familiar, followers of politics?  I finally got out of the store without committing to a round of shuffleboard followed by some stale cookies and a rousing bout of Bingo.

The point of the above rambling is that after working 11 years as the manager of a bookstore, I’ve dealt with more than my share of the same type of seniors who were harassing Troy.  Most teens have better manners.  I think I’m the only Boomer who truly appreciates  OK, BOOMER.  But perhaps that’s because I still have the brain of a 14 year old boy.