How to Tell You’re Old

It isn’t a date, or an age, or a year
Or the end of a decade drawing near.

It’s not bursitis or arthritic knees
Or gout or grippe... or any disease.

It’s not the morning you’re simply appalled
At the guy in the mirror who’s wrinkled and bald,

Or when people you work with seem to concur
The time has come to call you “Sir,”

Or the office party when you’re finally cashiered,
Clapped on the back, and briefly cheered.

It’s not when you notice you can’t remember
Or ask for your mittens in early September.

But there is a test you can’t deny,
And it’s final proof you’re an old, old guy.

Next time the wife sends you off to the store,
And you go to the car, and you open the door,

Just take a second to notice what
Goes in first... your foot or your butt.