MATH: The In-Between-Oldie on the Train is Worse than Puberty

So let's assume just for the sake of argument that we're all nice people here. I know, large assumption to make, but run with me for a minute.

Sitting on a train or bus that's relatively full, there are certain people you stand up for, offering them your seat: 1.) the extremely pregnant, 2.) the extremely elderly, 3.) *sometimes* children (depending on their age, your mood, and how harshly you secretly judge the parenting skills of their chaperone).

Now trying to guess whether or not someone is pregnant or just extreme is its own can of worms, but today's problem doesn't concern the breeders. It concerns the geezers.

This may not be true in all cities, but in Boston, there is a fair contingent of people who look really, really used. The townie types, who've smoked until their skin is prime quality leather, and who eat all their meals from a microwave or a taco bell, and who get wasted on Saturday night, whistling their catcalls through the gaps where front teeth should be. I once took a flight back from Florida sitting next to a woman who, chatting away in her scratchy bass voice, seemed to be looking good for her mid-70s. Then I found out she was 53. Younger than my mom. Eeek. I don't even wanna go INTO the folks I used to see at local bar "Pugs's" karaoke night...

All of which is to say that Boston is an age minefield, full of white-hairs who look shockingly youthful, as they've spent their entire lives sleeping with young coeds and sheltered against the winds of reality by their academic position, and equally brimming over with folks who, despite a face pleated over like a suntanned accordion, are only just past middle age.

So what about the necessary old-age seat give-up? Trying to be nice before, I've been asked "what, do I look that old?" Is my gut response, "yes, you do," inappropriate at this point? You've put me on the spot, after all, and only for an effort to be nice. But what's the flipside - leaving enfeebled octagenarians trying to maneuver between the handle-grip, which they flail for unseeingly, bent over as they are by age, and the bars of their walker?

For the record, I'll still be standing up, like the good midwestern girl who desperately needs the karma that I am, but just because I'm threading through the minefield willingly doesn't mean I have to like it.

-Posted by Jilly