I joke about being old. A lot.

Thing is, I know I’m not really that old. I mean, I’m old insofar as my high school students might define the term. I’ve got crow’s feet and scowl lines. My skin is a little saggier than it used to be. I’m getting closer to having been out of school longer than I was actually in it. And my students no longer ask me if I’m going to “da club” on the weekend.

But I’ve never actually felt out-of-my-comfort-zone old. I’ll even go to twenty-something bars on girls’ nights out and commandeer the dance floor without thinking twice or caring that I could, biologically speaking, have given birth to one of those people in there. In short, IDGAF, biotches!

That is, until the other day. The other day, I mustered a fuck to give.

We went out to eat for my husband’s birthday, and he decided he wanted to go into the mall to purchase a new belt while we were in the area. So in we went, our three kids in tow, and began searching for the typical skater/surf stores that fit my husband’s style.

And we found them. Lord help me, we found them.

We crossed the threshold into PacSun, and instantly I felt uneasy. What in the Biggie Smalls is this? I wondered. What has happened in here? 

I’m pretty sure it’s been a good decade since either of us has stepped foot in there, and I’m just here to say, WHATTHEFUCKISGOINGON? This was not the PacSun I remembered. It was less skater/surfer and more dub step meets Jersey Shore. The men’s clothes were…well…douchey, and the largest women’s size was Meth Addicted Street Walker.

I clutched onto the stroller, a mixture of desperation and shame and oldladyness dripping down my face as we navigated our way through the zig-zaggy aisles, the two darkly-clad and heavily-pierced clerks trailing us with their judgy judgerson eyes.

It’s not that I was somehow intimidated by their appearance, as out of place in this new PacSun as it seemed to be. My own husband used to be pretty darkly clad and heavily pierced himself. It’s just that — OK, FINE, I was intimidated by their appearance. Their young appearance.

“How are you doing tonight?” they accused.

“NOTHING FINE I’M THIRTY-FOUR GO AWAY JUST LOOKING WHAT?” I blurted into the floor.

They began talking my husband up about the concert tee he had on as I meandered about the store, shifty-eyed and sweating. At one point I looked up, partially gauging the reactions of the other patrons to our presence and partially searching for the nearest exit, and I was pretty sure I noticed that even my husband felt uncomfortable.

You know how sexual deviants are told to stay away from playgrounds and schools lest they be overcome by their unholy desires? I felt like someone should tell me to stay away from Hollister and Forever 21 lest my oldbitchery make me as creepy as that one guy who sits in the corner of college town establishments and oggles the coeds. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before the authorities burst in to escort us from the premises and take us into the back room, whereupon we would be welcomed by Chris Hanson of Dateline’s To Catch a Predator and interrogated about our intentions.

We made it out of there, the clerks undoubtedly laughing with their friends about our oldness long after we had arrived home, put our spawn to bed, and fallen asleep after enjoying a rerun of Matlock and some hard candy. And awkward though it was, I came out of this whole ordeal a bit wiser than I went in, having forged a new lifelong perspective on aging, one that I hope will serve you well as you navigate life’s journey:

Despite what you may think or joke about, you’re not really old until you feel like a child predator in PacSun.