A Richland County staff member, who I have great respect for and consider a fine and sincere human being, called me spry one night. I was performing more than my normal allotted weekly exercise, and my pants were getting looser. There was even a bit of spring to my step. Sadly, the condition proved to be temporary, and his attempt at being complimentary failed miserably.

Gabby Hayes was spry. Walter Brennan in The Real McCoys was spry. So was Mr. Bojangles. Not the chicken guy, the dancer. Spry is for really old codgers; men with whiskers, bow legs, and a goofy laugh. Specifically, those with many more rotations on the odometer than I have.

If my friend hadn’t been much younger than I, stronger and in better shape, and capable of summoning sheriff’s deputies with guns and tasers with the snap of his fingers, I’d have whipped him.

As it was, I howled with righteous indignation and chastised him as he looked on with a mixture of amusement and confusion, and perhaps a little pity. Really old people are spry; not me. I’m glad there was no mirror nearby. Reality might have left me breathless.

We hear much these days about political correctness as if it’s new. The only thing new is the political leanings of the people infringing on free speech. There has always been someone who gets offended by certain words and demands action. As a rule, I am against such drastic moves. But recent events have me questioning my position.

At the gym a few weeks back in front of my friend Terry, I was called robust by a lady at least two decades older who was part of a group trying to stay mobile by slow walking two hundred yards of indoor carpet at the rec center. She mistakenly included me in her peer group, and her description was designed to make amends for the slight.

Deeply hurt, I lost much of my self-esteem. The lack of confidence affected my racquetball performance. That and slow reflexes, lack of physical conditioning, and Stevie Wonder eyesight. Terry was very supportive. He tried to lift my spirits by constantly reminding me of the slur and telling the Women Whose Garbage I Am Responsible For the lady had made a pass at me. But that’s what friends are for.

Three weeks later, at a holiday party, I was called the absolute worst thing a man can be called by a woman. For the second time in my adult life, I was described as harmless. Trust me on this one, ladies; there is no worse thing you can say to a man. Any man. We value our dangerousness more than anything else. When we are deemed harmless, you may as well send us into the wilderness like the first Americans did with the old unnecessary ones.

These events have me rethinking my position about hurtful words. Maybe I’ve been wrong, and some language is so inappropriate it should never be uttered by human lips. The only issue is deciding who gets to determine which words are bad.

I’ll proudly take the responsibility and begin a list. Inappropriate will be the first word to be banned. Spry is next.