This past April, I turned 21. 21 years old. A regular baby, in the eyes of most. 

But I sure don’t feel that way. 

Let me explain. Starting this summer, I’ve had a string of what I call ‘I feel old’ moments.

In July, my grandparents took my sister, my two cousins and I to St. Louis to watch our beloved Cardinals play some baseball. My sister will be 18 next month. My oldest cousin is 16. His sister turned 14 just before our trip.

I remember when all three of these kids were born. 

While we were in St. Louis, there was a fair going on in the park below the Gateway Arch. The band Third Eye Blind was playing. I wouldn’t consider myself a huge fan, but “Semi-Charmed Life” and “Jumper” aren’t bad tunes.

My sister barely remembered the band and didn’t know any of the songs. Both cousins were clueless. I didn’t expect my grandparents to know any better, but really?It’s not like they’re some early 80’s doo-wop group from before they were born.

That was my first ever ‘I feel old’ moment. I got over it.

Until a few weeks ago.

My future brother in law had some friends and family over to his mother’s house to celebrate his 17^th birthday. 

Pizza, soda, lots of laughs. Good times. Then, one of the friends – about his same age – who was DJing the festivities, put on a Maroon 5 track. He smiled and said to the group, “Gotta love the oldies.”Oldies? Are you kidding me? Strike two. 

I must be getting old.

Then, I sit in my office and interview people whom I find out are freshmen. No big deal. I’m smart enough to understand that as a senior in college, freshmen are going to seem especially young to me. But, these freshmen are only six months older than my sister. 

She was born in 1994. Again, you’ve got to be kidding, right?

Our own Taylor Camden is but a pup, yet is clearly capable of big things. When did this happen?

Even as I sit here, typing this column, my knees, ankles and back ache. I’m drinking black coffee and listening to a ballgame through more radio static than audible commentary.

I’m out.