This chap might be a terrific salesman. But he is in desperate need of a pair of glasses.
There I was strolling through the International Plaza on the way to buy a Mother's Day gift for the Bombshell of the Balkans when the young man standing in front of a cosmetics store thrust a plastic bag into my hands.
"You should really try this," he said. "It will make you look younger."
We pause here for you to take a moment to gaze upon the photo accompanying this column. And yes, you are quite right to conclude there is nothing that will make me look younger.
Alas, the rather earnest fellow persisted.
The bag contained a sample of some goop, which the salesman insisted would do wonders for my puss. In fact, he was rather insistent I enter the establishment for a free — free! — treatment with the special ooze that would transform me into George Clooney.
"It will get rid of those lines and bags under your eyes," he promised. Phtttt! Promises, promises.
Look, I tried to explain, at nearly 68 years of age, I rather doubt there is any miracle elixir that will turn back the clock on my mug.
Besides, I noted, I've earned my lines and bags. They are, in a sense, the medals mother nature awards for hanging around.
But he was a young man. He couldn't quite grasp the notion that a guy pushing 70 is altogether comfortable looking like a guy pushing 70.
I know this is hard for a whippersnapper to understand. But I have these numerous tree rings of aging populating my kisser because I've raised two teenage boys. I've paid out-of-state tuition. I've undergone at least three major surgeries. I've been laid-off a couple of times. I worry about money. I worry about waking up. I worry about worrying.
It's a wonder I don't look like Yoda.
And to top it all off I live in a country that elected Donald Trump as its president. I don't need some cream to rub all over my face. I need a stiff drink. Many of them.
Contrary to popular misconception, I don't enjoy disappointing people. But really, this was too much. I tried to gently beg off from having the salesman apply the Ponce de Leon-like ointment to my countenance. I slowly began to back off, reminding myself I needed to find another way to exit the mall that didn't involve having to pass by the store.
He looked crestfallen, as if he was a hunter who had perfectly lined up a gullible deer in the cross-hairs only to lose his prey at the last minute. Perhaps he had to meet a quota of luring X number of geezers into the store by deluding them into thinking that by slapping some balm onto their visage they will suddenly hear the James Bond theme ringing in their heads.
As it turned out, after I had made my purchase for the Sunflower of Sparta, I found myself passing by the store selling Bag-O-Fountain of Youth. The young man was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had been demoted to salesman second class pitching eau de Sasquatch cologne.
In his place was an attractive young woman handing out samples of rejuvenating salves to passersby.
She never gave an old fogy a second look. Now this is a young lady who has a bright future in retail. She knows who is likely to buy and who is a lost cause.