The building where I go to swim each day has five doors on the way into the locker room. If others are walking behind me or in front of me, they often hold these doors open for me.

Many of these door holders are young people, college age.  When I say “thank you,” they often say in return “no problem.” Those who don’t know me are likely to call me “sir.”

Clearly they look on me as someone worthy of deference because I am a lot older than they are. They also seem to enjoy the physical action of holding the doors open for me.

They may also think I need help judging by my measured pace in walking, imposed by gimpy knees. In fact, those knees sometimes make their door holding more than a polite gesture; it is truly helpful. Most of the time, though, I’m capable of fending for myself.

And, as a fellow (if older) human being, I often hold the doors open for others. I don’t want them to think I’m merely a recipient of small favors. I can also give something to other people, whatever their age.

Often, the people at the gym smile at me. Especially the women. Even more than the guys, they seem to have special empathy for me. It’s as if they see me as needy or, perhaps, merely inoffensive.

In any case, I enjoy getting to know those of both genders, and addressing them by their first names. (In later life I have realized more deeply how people like having their names remembered.)

This insight urges me to use these names regularly. Surprisingly, despite the bad memory that people ascribe to old age, I don’t usually forget what to call people.

Friends and acquaintances whom I encounter there are likely to call me “Richard,” no matter their age. This familiarity I welcome. It’s a gesture of equality that I find highly compatible with true respect. It’s why I usually call the clergy, physicians, and other eminences by their first names.

All of us in this multi-doored building have something in common.  We have come together for exercise.  This shared experience gives us a bond that makes it easier to speak with one another, even when the words may be few.

But despite the camaraderie described here, I continue to think myself seen as belonging to a different species. In a word, I have become old and, to a reasonable degree, that sets me apart.

That’s because young people probably do not look on me as their future selves. To do so would require a rare and difficult exercise of imagination.

And this situation may be just as well. Why should young people not look upon their current years as normative? I want them to enjoy being young with all the achievements and surprises that come with their age.

The daily encounters of which I write enrich my daily life. They make it a pleasure to continue growing old. I feel thankful at having so many people younger than I to experience the human exchanges that make living so rewarding.

“Old age is the most unexpected of things that can happen to a man.” Or to a woman, I would add.

This quotation, taken from the notebook of the Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky, expresses the experience of many other people as well. I take my place among them.

Growing old is like entering a new country, a new way of being. With it come subtle changes in one’s relationships with others.  Analyzing these changes I find a fascinating daily preoccupation.