It was on the escalator in the downtown Atlanta Macy’s department store that I learned of the death of columnist Lewis Grizzard. The Muzak came to a screeching halt, and a voice came over the loudspeaker saying, “Attention Macy’s shoppers, we regret to inform you that Atlanta Journal Constitution columnist Lewis Grizzard has passed away.”

You could hear a pin drop as the busy store came to an immediate halt. Only the escalator kept moving and pushed me upward to my destination of the china department, where I stepped off the moving staircase and froze completely still. The saleswoman standing nearby said, “Did they just say …?” I looked at her while nodding my head and said, “Lewis Grizzard ...” She replied, “So young.”

Young? I thought, that’s not right. Lewis Grizzard was an old man. He had to be what, 55, 60 years old?” The truth was even worse. Lewis Grizzard died that spring day of heart problems in 1994 at the young age of 47. However, being in my 20s at that time, 47 may as well have been 97.

At a recent birthday celebration for a 100 year old, I began to understand a person’s age is one of those things that’s completely nebulous until you’ve experienced it yourself. We all thought the birthday girl was old, but to her, she was one of us.

My fifth grade teacher had us write a paper predicting what we would be doing on the eve of the millennium. At 10 years old, I wrote that I would probably be spending a quiet evening at home with my grandchildren, thinking my early 30s would surely find me in a rocking chair, popping a few Geritol tablets and turning in by 8 p.m. I wish my 10-year-old gangly self could have seen into the future and known that in reality on that night, I left my own new infant and toddler with a sitter and went dancing with my hot-looking husband, and for the record, I didn’t look like any grandmother, if I say so myself.

After my regular physician retired earlier this year, I found another who is younger than me. This is a “first,” but I decided if anyone in my life should outlive me, it’s the person who is responsible for keeping me alive. He’s a pretty smart guy, but I can tell he’s got a lot to learn. I mean, who lets someone run all those machines and tests when they’re only in in their 30s? To me, he seems like a kid.

My friend’s ages span eight decades, and would include a ninth, but I don’t consider teenagers to be friends just yet. I never really think about age much because my family never discussed anyone’s age. We always treated the topic as inconsequential and private.

“Hey, how ya’ doin’? How’s your mama? What was your SAT score? What’s your credit rating? How much weight have you gained?” Age is just one of those types of things we never brought up.

It used to be that you could tell how old someone was because people had the decency to look their age. Young people looked young and old people looked old and middle-aged people just looked tired. There was an unspoken rule that once a woman turned 30, she had to cut her hair short and give it a tight perm. Once men hit a certain age, they hiked their pants up and added socks with their sandals.

Now, with encouragement from icons like 80-year-old Sophia Loren and 72-year-old Harrison Ford, the old dress like the young, smooth their wrinkles and both genders use the best anti-aging device ever invented, hair color. Mothers wear their daughter’s clothes, while the younger set drags on with a wrinkled, disheveled look, shaggy hair and other anti-grooming styles that were once only seen in nursing homes.

Age is a tricky thing that means different things to different people, and if we’re smart, we value each day more and realize growing old is a good thing. I’m pretty sure Lewis Grizzard would agree. Bless his young and broken heart.