Age on Wheels

My month-long jaunt with university students in Ireland finished up a few weeks ago, but I am still recovering. So many unwelcome reminders that I am no longer 25. For example--

Most of the female students traveled with breathtakingly, backbreakingly huge suitcases (despite repeated orders to "pack light"). As we were gathering for the bus one day, some of the guys were kidding the women about the enormity of their cases and the women were insisting that they had packed only the essentials for a four-week trip. Foolishly, I interrupted the conversation.

"You know, when I was a college student, I traveled through Europe with a group like this for eight weeks and my only suitcase was a little square bag about half the size of your typical carry-on."

Sullen silence, shuffling feet, rolling eyes.

I realized I had just uttered the equivalent of the classic geezer "in-my-day" monologue: "When I was a lad, I walked five miles to school and five miles back over hill and dale in shoes made of cardboard and only a cold potato in my pocket. . . "

It got worse. One of the more assertive young women piped up. "But why? Why would you travel with such a ridiculously small suitcase?"

"Well, we moved around a lot and we had to. . . to. . . "

I couldn't, I simply couldn't continue. How could I tell them that I had to be able to carry, literally carry, whatever bag I brought, that my suitcase didn't have wheels, that no suitcases back then had wheels, that, yes, I am so old that I actually attended college back in the days when no one had yet thought of putting luggage on wheels. How could I admit that to them? How could I so clearly, convincingly confirm my dinosaur status? And how, oh how can I be that friggin' old?