Service with a .....blank look?

  .
I must apologise.  A few readers have pointed out that I seem to be writing more and more about the problems associated with getting old.  I really am sorry about this.  I have obviously not been making myself clear, so I had better state right now, unequivocally, that 45 YEARS OF AGE IS NOT OLD!!! 

It is young. 

It is the prime of life. 

It is the age where many of us men peak.

The problem that 45 year olds have is not that WE have changed, simply that others make our lives difficult for us, and I am not totally convinced  that they don't do this on purpose.

For example, have you seen how rude shop assistants are to us 45ers?  They must obviously go out of their way to change the way they deal with us, because prior to being 45 (even when I was 44 and three quarters), I seldom got annoyed at all with how they reacted to me.   But now it drives me up and over the proverbial picket-fence. 

Let me explain:- When I walk into a shop, it seems that every till operator / assistant / person presumably employed to provide service (let's call him or her the Shopdroid shall we?) immediately recognizes the fact that I'm forty five, and adopts what I call the Glaze Gaze.  Have you seen it?  Those who are 45 (or more) will surely recognize what I'm talking about, but for those simply nearing this fine age, let me explain:- The Glaze Gaze is when the Shopdroid's eyes are looking in our general direction, but are totally clouded over and unfocused.

As if we aren’t actually there.

It starts when I walk into a shop, or approach the till, or stride across the show room floor,  and find myself in front of The Shopdroid who is slouching behind the counter.  I look directly at ‘it’ (The Shopdroid, not the counter).  Of course I do. Eye contact is a grand way to start any business transaction, and it is only polite.  That's what Granny always used to tell me anyway. 

But the Shopdroid has other ideas. It seems to have had advance notice of my 45dom, and all it can make available to me is the top of its head.  Its crown.  What we call the ‘Text-Head’ .  The viewpoint us 45ers get when the Shopdroid is ignoring us to type a message on its cell phone.

I cough, subtly.

At first I believe it has the desired effect:- The Shopdroid actually looks up.  But then it frowns, swiveling slightly in its chair so that any runaway bits of cough-spittle will not contaminate its phone-screen, and returns to the bent forward position. 

I decide to take the first step of interaction, hoping that I may be able to take the Shopdroid's mind back to a customer service course of distant past.
“Hi there, I wonder if you could be of service,” I smile sweetly (another one of grandmother's insistances).

The Shopdroid looks at me in annoyance, and I get a brief flash-vision of angry stare in its eyes before the Glaze Gaze takes over. 
“Mmm ja huh?” it grunts.

I quickly inspect the Shopdroid to see if perhaps it is clutching its side with acute appendicitis, or perhaps has its leg jammed in the fax machine…..  there has to be something that has changed the expected “Good morning, and how can I make your day wonderful?” to such a guttural moan.  But apparently not - it seems all limbs are still attached and, apart from the exceptionally painful-looking piercing through its eyebrow, the Shopdroid is without injury.

Thinking it may be asleep, or in some sort of coma, I talk a little louder, thinking I may shock it out of its catatonic state.
“I would like to buy something / ask you something technical / perhaps even pay something towards your salary?” I suggest (the question mark is intended  as I have the vague hope that perhaps this extra sarcastic lilt may bring it back to Earth).

(It doesn't).

I lean over the counter, and reach for the Shopdroid's wrist,  wanting to check its pulse before summoning the paramedics.  That's when I realize that its fingers are still busy on the cell phone, frantically typing something along the lines of “Gr8 - QTpie - CU L8ter,2nite  cwl”.
Gran also had a thing about interrupting phone calls, and I spend a few seconds wracking my brain as to what her ruling would be about text messages.
“When you are ready…” I stammer. Trying to be polite but firm.

A waiting game follows. But I dig my heels in (why I am wearing heels I have no idea) - I'm not going anywhere until I have been served.

Eventually - HOORAY!  I win!  The Shopdroid lets out a huge sigh and, shaking its head in disbelief of my total irreverence to its high status, sort of serves me.

Of course it still refuses point blank to have any sort of eye contact with a 45er -  that would be très uncwl. No, the whole transaction is done with the Glaze Gaze  looking either over my shoulder, or at the ceiling.

Honestly, this is the ‘service’ us 45ers have to put up with.

And if that doesn’t make us feel bad enough, other people, our family included, try to overload our brains, causing us 45ers to look inadequate - just when we are actually heading towards perfection. 

Let me explain. If you get a computer and you fill its hard-drive (brain) with information (knowledge) it becomes an exceptionally clever source of intellect, which can be called upon to instantly provide answers to even the most difficult of questions.  But if you then start randomly bombarding it with extra bits of (useless) detail, it will slow down, get somewhat confused at times, perhaps be unable to instantly access some of the facts, and occasionally crash.

  This is what people do to us 45 year olds. I promise.  It’s true.

Up until this year I have always been a wealth of information, amazing my peers and family with my ability to provide facts lodged deep in my memory banks.  I was the champion of ‘Name that singer’.

But it seems that now people have chosen to hinder this talent, by overloading my brain.  It really isn't fair.  In any one day Mrs Ed will insist on telling me that she has booked a hair appointment for Thursday so she needs the car; that she has now embarked on a cheese, liver and eggplant diet; that the insurance guy who came into the shop last week (the one who looks just like her sister's first boyfriend except with a rather attractive scar from a motorbike accident)  says that the Rand is going to skyrocket; that her brother's son's birthday is the next day; that she hates the size of our diningroom table AND the blue shirt I insist on wearing (obviously just to annoy her), that my sister phoned and wants me to call her back urgently; and that the toilet is leaking at the back.

Then she expects me to recall this information instantly. Which I can't. 

Obviously.

And if that doesn't get me into enough trouble, this new clueless clutter of conversational crud causes the previously well-indexed information in my brain to scramble! The same brain that I have taken 45 years to carefully and efficiently fill, with a place for everything and everything in its place, suddenly has a 'desktop' overflowing with scrawled mental scraps of paper and precariously positioned post-it notes.  At 45,  I come last in a “Name that Immediate Family Member” competition.

I  suddenly find myself forgetting appointments, forgetting my wedding anniversary, forgetting where I parked the car and forgetting to buy Mrs Ed's cigarettes on the way home.

It's all really too much for a 45er to cope with, and I am certainly going to have stern words with Mrs Ed, just as soon as it's safe to come out from under the bed and rush back to the shops for her cigarettes. 

I only wish I could remember what brand she smokes ...