Well, as of today, I’m officially one day closer to the century mark than I am to the day I was born.
So, does that make me old?
When I was a kid, there was no question. 50 was OLD. 65 was officially elderly. And anything after that was pretty much playing with house money.
But over the past few decades, my view on the issue has changed, although I hear bifocals can help with that.
The way I look at it is when the guy who famously sang “I hope I die before I get old,” is still strutting his stuff at 66, either the definition of “old” has officially changed, or else Roger Daltrey has been one disappointed dude for the past few decades. (Of course, after watching their sloppy, dispirited performance during the Super Bowl, just fading away might have been the smarter play.)
When 40 is the new 30 and 30 is the new 12 and fuscia is the new black, what the hell is the new old?
Can you still claim to be young(ish) if you keep your waistline less than or equal to your age? Your hairline greater than or equal to the midpoint of your skull?
Of course, there are always those who claim that age is nothing but a state of mind. I’m curious how successful these folks are at willing away arthritis, cataracts or incontinence.
In many cultures, age is a source of pride. It earns you respect and a reputation for
And perhaps that’s the problem. If we weren’t so obsessed with covering up every sign of aging, just as we are with being thin, hairy and erect at a moment’s notice, the lack of pressure would allow us to enjoy ourselves for who we are. Instead, it’s the American ethos that we continually strive to be the someone we hope to be (when we’re young) or the someone we were (as we get older). Too many of us fail to simply take pleasure in being the someone we are right now.
And there you have it. Two days into this blogging thing, and I’m already reduced to composing sappy missives appropriate nowhere outside of an Affirmation a Day calendar.
Next post will contain at least 50% more rage and cynicism per volume. I promise.