You know you're getting old when...

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I remember all the things my parents used to say that made them seem old. Stuff like: “Back in my day” and one of my Dad’s all time favourites: “When you’re the father of three daughters…you will understand x,y or z.” Never mind that obviously none of his three daughters would ever be fathers. I guess that was the point of the saying. He actually meant never.

Anyway, I think I’m on a slippery slope. It could go either way. Here are some examples.

I have started referring to all people I meet at the office or the shops or anywhere I expect a competent person to work, as 12 year olds. I mean I have nothing against 12 year olds. Except that they shouldn’t be in charge of anything. (Other than putting the bins out and making their own lunch.)
I’ve been lamenting things that we used to do in the olden days. Like talk to people IRL (that means In Real Life, for any other old people reading this). This includes breaking up with people by telling Tracey to tell Carolyn to tell Marie that Joey said that she was dropped. Now it is just a text message.
You also met blokes you wanted to date IRL. You know at a bar, at church, at actual places. Now you meet them on RSVP and Tinder. All well and good but so much more work than just looking at them and saying to your friends: he’s hot. As a way around this some entrepreneurial types invented speed dating. Do not be fooled. It’s a trap. It’s more like being stuck in a revolving door with weirdos. On the plus side I met a really nice girl called Kelly who I will probably be friends with for the rest of my life. Silver linings…
On Friday nights I think: maybe I should go out? And then I realise the lounge is comfy and Netflix is more fun than pissed idiots at the bar. You know when you are judging the pissed idiots instead of being one of them, you’re definitely getting old.
You’d much rather go on a river cruise in Europe than a P&O cruise to anywhere.
I’ve started to invent new sports like sit-swimming that aren’t actually sports. Also I played Pickle Ball and I really liked it. If I didn’t have a broken foot I would probably be obsessed by now.
At 9pm you’re hovering at the door, waiting for it to be late enough to dob your neighbours in for playing music too loud on a Saturday night.

Now I’ve written down all these terrible things, I am ashamed. I feel like I should immediately return to Vegas and hit the town in my gold cowboy boots. Before I start complaining that they are too high or my feet hurt.

I’m very sorry everyone. Booking my flight right now. Fun Tina will return after this break.