Vintage

I turned twenty only a few days ago. Of course, I was greeted with the usual camraderie that accompanies most birthdays, which features cards, texts, Facebook posts, a few gifts and enough “Happy Birthdays!” to last me a few years. Following all the celebration and fun, comes the inevitable realization that yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that really feel about the same as the day that you’re supposed to be partying over the exodus out Mom’s private parts, or however you were birthed. After about age eleven, birthdays were more for family, who seemed more excited for my birthday than I ever was. When I started to gain a few years under my belt, I began to appreciate surviving another year rather than cheering over the day my life began.

This latest birthday, however, was far different than any I’ve ever plodded, slept, or worked through. This birthday, my twnetieth year of life and easily just as dull as the ones before, revealed to me what “getting old” actually means.

Most people reading this are probably older than me by more than a few years, and I’m still a “young pup,” according to some I’m acquainted with, but age isn’t just years.

There is a customer at my job that comes in every night. Most restaurants that insist on staying open will have those customers that love burdening others with their presence for long periods of time. For whatever reason, the doings of others are hardly my concern, but this one particular gentlemen prefers to make an ass of himself every time he graces our dining room with his mustachioed smile and sweatpants (shorts on a few occasions). Few people truly annoy me more than him, whether it be the fact he only orders drinks for his four hour stay, or his obnoxious and brazen attempts at flattery with my girlfriend and other unfortunate souls that have to wait on his table. Then he leaves, usually without leaving behind a tip. He pretends to know everything and gives opinions on any subject that might cross his table, or any around him for that matter. He likes to argue. He prefers to be right, and he wants everyone to know it.

So, basically he’s an asshole.

And more importantly, he’s fifty years of age and up.

The way he acts in public, and how he treats others, is something one might expect in a teenager or even a child. The sheer disrespect is mindblowing, and not only does society (along with my myself), expect the youth to be more on the obnoxious side of things out of inexperience, but the older generations, having lived through years of unruly and awful miscreants, are sort of expected to be wiser and aware of how to treat others.

Yet, he will continue to misbehave and mistreat others, and I will keep doing the opposite. It’s a question of maturity, and it wouldn’t be hard to guess whether or not he acts his age.

And besides, acting like a twenty year old according to society’s standards seems overrated.

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