At my age, it's too late for a mid-life crisis. So, it must be a "late-life crisis" coupled with occasional "senior interludes".
This is normally recognized in two ways. First, I'm getting more daily offers of assistance. For awhile, I figured it was just living in Oregon where nice people look out for each other.
"Great," I said. "Beats the ol' big city life any time".
But, then I noticed some of the people offering assistance appeared to be older than me! That brought on pangs of guilt and a rush to the nearest mirror for assurance. Well, so much for assurance.
The other form of this affliction comes when suddenly realizing you are dealing with so many younger people. Children it seems. Even worse, a lot of them are people in whom you must trust your life.
Take airline travel for instance. Time was you felt comfortable with a gray-haired crew up front. That meant thousands of hours in the air, experience with lots of emergencies, calm assurance of command. The Chesley Sullenberger types.
Well, look around now. The pilots are Skippy and Ginger and some guy in a uniform running up and down the aisle is named Randy. Wait a minute. I'm as much for equality and advancement as the next guy. But, some of these kids haven't started shaving and such gray hair as may be on the flight is all in the seats in the back! On some flights I'd bet I've got more pilot-in-command time in a Cessna 172.
We recently needed some legal assistance. Since I've managed to stay out of trouble during our current residency, we hadn't needed an attorney so I relied on a friend's referral. At the office, I filled out the obligatory "how-are-you-going-to-pay" form and was ushered into the inner sanctum. I thought the young fella behind the desk was an intern who'd do pre-meeting legal screening.
No way! This prepubescent kid in a golf shirt was going to get me through the local county legal briar patch? He should've been home cramming for a chemistry exam.
Don't even ask me about my barber. Every time he jumps up on his little chair-side stool I repeatedly tell him playtime is over and I'm here to see his father.
My medical, flight safety, hair care and legal concerns are being handled by kids who've never lived without computers, have no concept of 45RPM records or 8-tracks, never saw Ed Sullivan, Jack Parr, Huntley-Brinkley or even a black and white TV set. Ask them about fender skirts and you get a blank look. Same thing for 25-cent-a-gallon gas, party line telephones and transistors. They don't know life before credit and debit cards, microwave ovens or radio before talk radio. Or FM! FM?
Oh, I'm sure they have all the proper credentials and accompanying education and training. If they didn't, they wouldn't be where they are doing what they're doing. But, two things they haven't got are miles on the odometer of life and real-time experiences that make us who we are. They're just beginning the professional evolution process that will make them into what the rest of us have already become. Older. Much older.
Oh well, I guess it's up to me to relax and get used to it. But, I'd like to be there the day Skippy-the-pilot gets on a flight as a gray-haired passenger and is told on the intercom "Good morning. Your captain today is computer 2-4-3-7. We're no longer using co-pilots - human or otherwise."
Yep. Love to see that.