When I stopped being called a 'young man'

"I'm so glad I could link arms with a young man; I feel like I'll have a good day today."
That's what an elderly woman who came into the shop said after grabbing my arm. How much longer will I be called a "young man"? Behind the compliment, the second-person pronoun used for me started to look a bit blurred.

In the first place, her linking arms with me was a necessity. For the less than a minute it took for her daughter to pull the car up to the entrance, I was simply used as a pillar to support her body.

Her thin but warm fingers gripped my arm desperately.
Rather than a desperation born of affection, it would be more accurate to call it the desperation of ensuring safety so as not to fall.
But come to think of it, how long has it been since someone gripped my arm this desperately?
If an earthquake were to happen at this very moment, I would at least want to fulfill my role as a pillar.

Perhaps "young man" also carried a sense of gratitude for me having fulfilled my role as a pillar.
It is possible that "young man" was simply the pronoun used to convey, "I don't just think of you as a mere substitute for a pillar."

As for the word "young," how much of that is just social pleasantry? From her perspective, I might indeed be young, but even if I were 60, I would still be younger than her. Would I still be a "young man" then? No, that feels like a stretch.

Even so, the fact that she used the word "young man" for me without hesitation suggests that I am, for the time being, still within the range worthy of that title.

At my current age, by calculation, I should have long since outgrown the range of being a "young man." If anything, I am joining the ranks of "middle-aged men" rather than "young men."
However, as of the time I am writing this article, I have never once been called a "middle-aged man."
I am somehow on the edge. Standing on the cliff of a paradise overgrown with young grass, if I look down, the second stage of life, where withered grass sways, is waiting for me.
If someone were to give me a gentle push on the back while calling me a "middle-aged man," I would immediately tumble down the cliff.

Standing on such a precarious spot, I am somehow managing to be allowed to remain a "young man."

"Look, face the young man properly."
On another day, a mother who came to the shop to buy glasses for her child said that to her young child.

The mother, who was likely around my age, called me "young man"—I don't know the answer as to whether I truly looked like a "young man" to her, whether she chose a safe way to address me out of consideration, or whether she was avoiding calling me a "middle-aged man" so that she wouldn't automatically become a "middle-aged woman" herself.

When the expiration date of the "young man" label eventually comes for me, what will I be called?
As long as I am at the glasses shop, I might be called "clerk." An extremely safe way to address someone that is inoffensive regardless of the situation.

Conversely, that would mean that in inverse proportion to the frequency of being called "clerk," I am no longer a "young man."
When the day comes that I am called "clerk" 100% of the time, I will be standing in that second stage of life where withered leaves sway.

Until then, I want to at least savor the limited time I have as a "young man."