The doorbell just rang. It was two boys from the local high school (DG South, for those who will get the later joke), hawking some kind of fundraising gold card that would give me discounts at local merchants and the like. I passed on their offer ("if for no other reason than that I went to North", as I told them), but that's not what troubling. What troubled me was the age of these kids. Looking at them through the window before opening the door, I figured them to be peddling for Little League or youth soccer or somesuch. THESE DID NOT LOOK LIKE HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS. These were kids about HALF MY AGE.
Oh, God, I'm old, I'm old, I'm so very, very old. Might as well just join AARP now.
That's sort of how I felt when, after I bitched that Phil did not get a reference to Michael Jackson's Beat It video in Undercover Brother, my mom pointed out that Phil was not even alive when that video came out.