The good news is the bad news: I have one more year of desirability left. I am 48 going on 49 and once I blow out my candles, I’ll officially move from the comforting anonymity of the Adults 18-49 hyphen into the harsh, exposed terrain of Young Adulthood’s terminus, with just 366 days left as a member of “the desirable Adults 18-49 demographic.”

Now, okay, I grant you this only relates to advertisers who want to sell me crap, but other than my family and that check-out girl at Trader Joe’s, what else have I got? It’s not like I’m a Back Street Boy. I take desirability where I can.

And it’s a daunting prospect. Because now that I hear my Desirable-ogical clock ticking, it strikes me that I’ve squandered the blessings of young adulthood: We’re desired, after all, for our openness to trying new products; our unestablished brand loyalties; and disposible incomes that aren’t going to disposible diapers. After 30 years of sliding through this age bracket like a pig through a python, I’m about to be deposited out the back end. And what do I have to show for it? Have I lived up to expectations or have I let my demographic down?

It’s true, I do have a few good years left in the much less vaunted Adults 25-54 demo, but to most retailers I might as well be part of the Homeless 25-54 or Death Row Inmates 25-54 or CBS Viewers 25-54 demographic.

If you’ve seen King Lear or any of those “Where Are They Now?” child star specials on E!, you know how tragic a fall from grace can be. So with one year left till I stand at the edge of that cliff, I refuse to go out quietly. There’s nothing I can do about getting older, but I sure as hell can make them miss me when I’m gone.

So, get ready, retailers, for a year-long consuming frenzy. You want to feel desire? Just watch this still-young adult consume your domestic light beer, drive cars I can’t afford, and order wireless service, investment products and computer games I don’t need. I’m going to every single one of those crappy date movies, sequels and remakes you’re churning out. I’m going to download all my favorite shows and songs onto my iPhone and send it to my friend in New York overnight. I’ll be disposed to disposing my disposable income on digital cameras and software upgrades, airline tickets to everywhere, printers and meals at Chili’s. And when next October rolls around, after I score World Series tickets on StubHub, I will put my threadbare Visa card away.

And consumer spending will plummet, and you will know why.

And they’ll come to me with their TV commercials and pop-up ads and radio spots and say “Hey, Toby, there are still tires to buy and driving machines to aspire to and domestic light beer to drink.” And I’ll say, “No, sorry. I’m 50. I’m saving for retirement; my drink is borscht now; and I find wireless technology scary. There are plenty of newly desirable young adults who want to own Saw IV on BluRay and want to text message their friends that they’re at the gas station and that they’ll text them once they’re done at the gas station.”

And they’ll shrug and walk away, and a younger colleague will stop them and ask “Who’s the old guy?” And they’ll say, “That was Toby Muller. ...The best Adult 18-49 there ever was.”

Toby Muller

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