Picking up the race packet

So I sneak out of the office at lunchtime to pick up my packet for what looks like a modest 5k on a pleasant September Saturday morning tomorrow. I drive on downto the local running store, which is distributing the packets and schwag, feeling pretty good about myself, park and walk in the door.

Poof!  There went the good feeling.

First, I'm the oldest person in there, including customers, by 15-20 years.  That alone was enough to make me feel like it was time to find Lawrence Welk reruns on TV.

Second, I looked like a pro football player (an offensive lineman, not a wide receiver) compared to everyone else in the store.  Seriously.  I think that the guys in the store, if they ever wear sports coats or suits, don't come close to 40 inch chests. 

Third, the young woman stocking the geezer-wear section (you know, compression socks and sleeves) didn't even look at me, much less ask if I wanted help.  I WAS INVISIBLE!

Fourth, when I picked up the race packet, the clerks/volunteers SPOKE REAL LOUD so that I could hear.  Of course, that could have been a reflection on them -- they were holding and looking at my number, which included a line that read "Shirt - XL", and asked me what size shirt I wanted.  Uh, XL please.

Finally, when one of the employees was able to see through my cloak of invisibility in order to accept my credit card (I make a point of buying something when picking up a race packet), he patronized me by asking me if I expected to place tomorrow (I said the race was modest, not miniscule).  I could see little thought balloons over his head -- "Let's make the old geezer feel good about his daily constitutional -- let's act like he should win!" 

And I thought my kids were responsible for making me feel old.