I was sitting at the Cape Town City Centre, waiting (and waiting) to renew my car licence. A robotic voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Number 73 to counter 14.”

I pulled my ticket from my pocket — 112. I sighed and stuffed the ticket back into my pocket.

A few minutes later, the robot droned again: “Number 74 to counter 6.” I checked my ticket — still 112. I sighed louder.

Six minutes later: “Number 75 to counter 12.”

At that moment, a City official strolled by, pointed at the person behind me, and said, “Excuse me, sir. Pensioners can go to the front of the queue.”

I turned to look at the pensioner. There was no one behind me. I was confused for a second until it hit me like a Mike Tyson uppercut — he meant me! He was talking to me. ME! I was the pensioner.

I hurrumphed so loudly that heads turned. “Pensioner? Me?” I spluttered, clutching my not-yet-senior heart. The official shrugged and moved on.

The robot voice called, “Number 76 to counter 8.”

I pulled my ticket out of my pocket, unfolded it, and looked at my number — yep, still 112.

I harrumphed for a second time, but this time because I had not seized upon my new “pensioner” status and gone to the front of the queue.

The wait for my turn went quickly, though, as I wrestled with my new “pensioner” identity. The truth is, I self-identify as a young person.

In my mind’s eye, I’m 20-something. Sure, random body parts now ache for no reason, my knees creak, and a sneeze can throw my back out. But a pensioner?

Maybe the official just thinks everyone older than him is ancient. I don’t think I look old, though I stopped looking in mirrors a decade ago.

I’ve noticed, however, that people speak more softly, print’s gotten smaller, and words that were once easy to reach now play hide and seek in the recesses of my — er, what’s that thingamabob called where memories are stored?

Lately, people are increasingly calling me “madala”, that affectionate South African term for a respected elder.

After a recent bout of hobbling, I saw a specialist who blamed “wear and tear” for my ankle agony.

“Gradual deterioration happens to all of us when we get old,” he said.

Old? I don’t think of myself as old; I think of myself as 25 with 30 years of experience.

That moment in the licence queue and the doctor’s casual quip stuck with me, forcing me to face up to the fact that you can deny reality, but it always gets the last word.

It was time to look in the mirror and confront the cold truth, which is that I’m five years shy of being eligible for the Older Persons Grant.

This is my new identity: I may forget names, but I still remember every lyric from the Rocky Horror Show and I’ll never be the youngest person to win the Tour de France, but I could still be the oldest – that’s if my creaking knees stop quaking long enough for me to get off the couch.

I’ve learnt that ageing is the ultimate test of character.

My mind and body will continue to change, people will speak even softer and print will become even smaller, but I will still be me; I will always be me.

I’m not 20-something anymore, and it’s time to embrace my age — not as something to hide from, but something to be grateful for. After all, we’ll all be old one day, if we’re fortunate.

So, next time someone calls me “madala,” I’ll just smile, crank up my creaky knees, embrace my new identity and queue-jump like a VIP – Very Important Pensioner.