Editor’s note: While Patty Kimerer is on leave, we present this Classic Kimerer column originally published April 26, 2004.

It was while I wrangled the stair mill machine at the YMCA the other morning that it happened.

One of the toddlers posing as a personal trainer on the gym’s Cybex Floor waddled over to me for some supposed small talk.

As I grappled with the escalator-simulation machine, a struggle intensified by the extra exertion required to create a carefree facade; the little tot examined my form and asked, “How old are you, again?”

“Thirty-six,” I said with the wisp of a breath left in my ever-maturing lungs.

“Wow! You look great for your age,” barked the eager little puppy.

I refrained from using the evil super-laser vision power found far within my soon-to-be-cataract-riddled eyes to zap irreparable crow’s feet across her smooth skin.

Just then I heard myself mutter something as perplexing as the last three words of her slippery statement.

”Thank you,” came the crony voice of a middle-aged flab queen.

Well, for those of you who might have been wondering when people officially become too old to receive a compliment sans a qualifier, the answer is: at my age.

As Pippy Longstocking went into her office to read Teen People and text message her girlfriends about the latest Mary Kate and Ashley movie, I wiped the sweat from my graying brow and limped off the stepper in search of a little empathy.

“She said what?” gasped my oldest childhood friend Michelle, who lives in Lowellville and is, incidentally, two months my junior, the little brat.

“I’d report her,” she said with the unwavering devotion only someone I’ve known 31 years could muster.

Well, that and she’s nearly 36 herself.

“To whom? AARP for trying to rush a membership?” I cracked.

Come to think of it, I should have simply done what Cambodian Prime Minister Hun Sen did earlier this month: magically made myself nearly a year and a half younger on my last birthday.

According to a report by the Agence France-Presse (an international newswire organization), the high-ranking politician was addressing a crowd at a school opening when he announced that, despite official documents listing his birth date as April 4, 1951, he was actually born Aug. 5, 1952.

In a seemingly senior moment, Sen said that he had forgotten his real birthday and subsequently misreported it when he became a soldier in 1970.

Yes, yes, that’s it. I’m really 29, I just forgot.

So did 78-year-old Pat Schmoltz of Warren, who I recently bumped into while lunching at the Mocha House.

“How’s it going, Mr. Schmoltz?” I asked the friend of a friend.

“Just great and how’s that little one of yours?” he responded.

After inquiring how old Kyle is, he inexplicably and infinitely endeared himself to me by casually commenting, “Oh that must mean you’re about what, 29?”

Needless to say, his cup of Joe was on me that day; something for the little YMCA missy to keep in mind.

I’m telling you, simply skip the latter part of that lovely observation of my sagginess and that free Gatorade is yours.

Contact Kimerer in large print at pkimerer@zoominternet.net.