How exactly did I get so old?

Oh my God, I've become cliché.

This particular realization began to dawn during a rainy, late night weekend run to the supermarket. As I stood in line at the checkout, I noticed the following items in my cart: a pint of Ben & Jerry's, a bar of dark chocolate, Mrs. Edward's key lime pie (thank goodness for those single-serving boxes), ibuprofen, "female products," O magazine and People magazine.

Cue the echo chamber effects.

I silently screamed like the person in the Munch painting. I wanted to run from the building. At that time of night I probably looked like the person in that painting, too. I have no doubt the People magazine and the chocolate constituted the tipping point in my pitifulness. In combination with Oprah's magazine, the universe allows you one or the other per visit. Not both. And yes, I was actually wearing sweats at the time.

Things went downhill from there. The next week I returned to the same supermarket to do the weekly shopping, only to be insulted. Cash registers spit out receipt tape based on MVP (Most Vapid Person?) or VIC (short for 'victim'?) card usage. I've always suspected they track our every move under the guise of saving us money. Now I have proof.

I knew no good could come of it, but like a lemming I fell for it once again and dutifully handed over my card. I have no idea which purchase was the culprit this time, but the next thing I knew I held in my hand advertisements for lactose-free this, caffeine-free that and low-acid the other. Then the machine continued and spit out coupons for Metamucil, antacids, and Depends. Depends? Are they kidding me?!

Had I been weaker of will, I would have bought a rocking chair, pulled my twisty locks into a bun, donned a cardigan and taken up knitting on the spot. Or at the very least, I should have vowed to send my children to the store for me from now on. But no, undaunted and ever the optimist, I found myself in the mall the very next day destined to sacrifice my dignity yet again on the altar of utter and abject public embarrassment.

I needed a pick-me-up after the supermarket debacle, so I visited Bath & Body Works. I'm guessing my mistake was taking my daughter with me, she of few words and near-perfect skin. I went there to find a specific facial wash. It worked well for me in the past and, as a bonus, did not have a cloying scent. I asked the perky (I hate perky) young sales associate for the product. She responded, "I'm sooo sorry. We're out of that just now, but we have some great products over here that I'm sure you'll love." She blithely led me to the anti-aging section of the store.

Didn't she get the memo about women of color? We may experience a higher incidence of certain health concerns, but our skin does not age. At least not as quickly as it does for those who are a lighter shade of pale. I came for some beauty products. Based on her peals of unrepentant laughter, it was apparent that my daughter came for amusement. The child has no respect for her elders. I should've made her walk her clear-complexioned self home.

It's true that the parents of the students I teach are getting younger and younger. And yes I'm tired by 10 o'clock on Friday nights, but that's only because I've worked all week. When it comes to age, I always round up. I embrace each passing year. I honor my hard-earned wisdom. I have yet to freak out over a birthday or my gray hairs. I have no immediate plans for plastic surgery. I've only recently begun to mangle the lyrics to current songs, and I don't use words like "whippersnapper."

Look where it's gotten me. Apparently I am now no longer young. Great. They might've given a sistah a heads-up.