It finally happened yesterday: someone used the dreaded "your age" reference with regards to ME. I let it pass for the sake of appearances, but I was a cauldron of seething rage inside. Here's the skinny:

We were in the car with my 23-year-old brother-in-law and he asked me if I'd seen the new "Transformers" movie yet. I replied that I hadn't, as I'd been so let down by the first one's deconstruction of my childhood icons.

The insouciant boy then replied, "Yeah, a guy I work with is about your age, and he said the same thing." My eyes flared open in disbelief. Was the dial on my hearing aid not turned to "loud and squeaky"? Had this whey-cheeked upstart really just called me out on my advancing years? I began to fumble around on the floor for my cane to administer some old school justice on his still-cone-shaped-from-birth head.

Then a thought slowly wended its way through my ancient neurons: this walking ultrasound hadn't meant to give his elder "the sauce". I'm sure he had no idea the effect his callous remark would have on my wizened emotions. Nothing going on here but the folly of youth on full display.

So, demonstrating my decades of accumulated wisdom and forbearance, I let it pass. He fell quiet, no doubt musing on the relative advantages of various Otter Pops flavors and wondering what time Pokemon was on.

To him, and to all smug teens and twentysomethings out there, I paraphrase another icon of my '80s childhood: "When 30 years of age you reach, look as good you will not."

What constitutes both the fastest and the longest sixty-five seconds of your life? A ride down the bobsled track at the Olympic Park. My entire body is still tingling.