Wanna feel old...

...well, then, go--in your 31st year--to a college campus tour, as part of your over all attempt to make a significant career change. Watch, as people 1/2 your age; joke, lament, scorn, deplore, suffer and attempt to deceive, those who are twice your age, on the subject of on-campus, freshman apartment furnishing.

Then, taunt, the attractive, young, female tour guide as she inquires, "Graduate or undergraduate?" as to your status as a future student, with the remark,"all of the above!"--not just with enthusiasm--but, like you don't want to say, "Bitch."

Then, observe, as an 18-year-old kid, hiding behind fadish sunglass, smokes cigarettes, sporting a Goodwill-flannel fashion sense, lingers at the far back of the tour group, while his mother interrogates the guide at the opposite end of the tour.

Then, smirk, as the gratuitously-positive guide, interrupts his off-the-cuff, yet over-practiced monologue, to address each alleged acquaintance in the passing corridors.

Then, pause, as concerned parents rationalize--before an admissions officer--their agitated-yet-apologetic prototype's high school class ranking, while the beaming patron, trumpets his own occupation as his progeny's predestination.

Then, depart, with the determination of the school's overall academic-thematic focus, your own relative admission status, an exhaltation at the dating and signing of your resignation letter, and the chide that your determination to realize these academic aspirations withstands the temptations of convenient credit and youthful, receptive co-eds.