If you’re under the age of 50, read no further; this column isn’t for you. It’s for old people.

Turns out I was officially “old” at 54. I thought my continued listening to the likes of Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin precluded that. I still feel “hip” and even sometimes “cool” at the advanced age of 67. Thus it was when I was over 10 years younger that I was labeled an “old man.”

What? I’m only 54. That’s not old. At least that’s what my elderly church ladies tell me. They say I’m just a kid. But wait a doggone minute — I’m 67 with a few artificial limbs, just one working eyeball, a widower, and, unlike the Floyd, I’ve never heard anything by Pink. That means I’m one thing — old, darn it. And I like it.

When I was a young 54, a woman parked her car right in front of my driveway thereby blocking me in. As a pastor, I had to get to the hospital to see a parishioner and this large, empty van was blocking my way out. But no, it wasn’t empty after all. There was an infant sleeping in a car seat in the back, seemingly abandoned.

Just as I was about to call the police, a “young” mother, dragging another child by the hand climbed into the van. I walked up and calmly began to say that it wasn’t OK to block my driveway and it was really problematic leaving her baby unattended. She spat at me, “Old man.” At that, she drove away, opening up her window and yelling her curse at me once more — “You’re an old man.”

A couple thoughts swiftly raced through my young brain.

First, I began to chuckle because, if calling me an old man was supposed to be an epithet, I figured she could have done a lot better. If she’d said, “I’ll bet you even listen to The Eagles,” then there would have been an issue. But as it was, “old man” bounced off me like the machine gun bullets pinging off the fighter jet cockpit windshield in the Johnson Wax commercial of 1960. Old? But I don’t feel old. I’m still listening to rock ‘n’ roll, still eating tofu, still wanting a vintage VW bus. Old is — well, old. I’m young, man, even as I shake my bootie to Sly and the Family Stone.

So is my 67 year-old friend, Paul, who still listens to T-Rex, Iggy Pop and other “cool” bands. We were walking up Pendleton’s Northwest 11th Street, an incline that “young people” avoid like the plague on Halloween night because even free candy isn’t worth the effort. Paul related his recent story of walking up a hill where some Pendleton Bucks were practicing football. Impressed with his elderly vigor, they said, “Good job, old man.”

When I asked him how that made him feel, he replied, “Finally, I got some respect.” I’d been cursed for being “old” but Paul had been blessed. He’s from Queens, I’m from Toledo. Go figure.

But here’s the rub and everyone over 50 knows it — when it comes to aging, the goal posts keep getting moved back. Ok, so my bod is 67; big deal. Why is it then I feel so young? I’m just going on 30, for God’s sake. My head disagrees with my body on this point so who should I listen to? The church ladies say I’m just a youngster. I read the Sunday comics assiduously. I chew bubble gum and love Silly Putty when I can find it. I’m a Pez man from way back. I despair over the fact that Mad Magazine is no longer published. And you say I’m not young? Please. “Old” is like, 80. But then I just know it. When I’m 80, the 90 year olds will be the “old people.” And they’ll agree, saying I’m just a “kid” at 80 while they refer to each other as “girls.”

So here’s the dealy-bob: in our self-absorbed, narcissistic, youth-worshipping culture where everyone over 50 must have a tattoo (guilty as charged) and we do everything in our power to forget the past, I’ve come to embrace the moniker of “old age.” I’m young enough to know, but old enough to know better.

Yes, every gray hair, every wrinkle, every hair that sprouts from a weird place, every scar — they all testify to a life well-lived, marked by both tragedy and victory. Every varicose vein testifies to a victory over death, which is really old age. Being “67 years young” or referred to as a “young man” has no appeal to me.

I’m not young, I’m happily retired. But I’m not old because what old person digs Jimi Hendrix? I’m not young nor old. I’m just right. At least until the goal posts get moved again.