I am not a Baby Boomer. I cannot be blamed for the failures of what I hope will be our only two Boomer Presidents, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush. Nor for the Boomers' greed, selfishness, materialism and excesses of the flesh. OK, so maybe I dabbled around the edges of those things, but I was born too soon to indulge in all the hedonistic pleasures. I didn't result from my parents' long wartime separation and lack of sex, followed by an immediate post-war pregnancy. I am a War Baby, born five months after D-Day, two weeks after Franklin D. Roosevelt won a fourth term, and five months before the Germans surrendered. With my birth, my father was hoping to avoid the draft. He didn't. He left for basic training a couple months after I was born and didn't get back from occupied Japan until September 1946.
And next month I will turn 65, well ahead of the Boomers. What's left of my hair is turning gray. My joints hurt and I complain about it. I just can't seem to sleep beyond 7 a.m. or stay awake past 10 p.m. (OK, maybe more like 9 p.m.) Most new movies, music and TV shows don't interest me much. I listen to oldies on AM radio that I once bought on 45 rpm records. I have started clipping grocery store coupons. I eat raisin bran with skim milk. I mix Metamucil into my orange juice. I get junk mail from people trying to sell me raised toilet seats "contoured for comfort" and Total Body Cleanse "to eliminate unnecessary toxic build-up." (See above). Sigh. I have become my grandfather.
Of course I know that, considering the alternative, turning 65 ain't so bad. Problem is, I wasn't expecting to get this old. I went to Vietnam and didn't think I'd come back. I watched a lot of friends die of AIDS. My college roommate was murdered at age 34 for no reason by a crazy guy with a handgun. But I'm still around, now approaching the traditional boundary of Old Age. I do wonder, sometimes, why I made it and so many others didn't.
Being on the cusp of the Boomer generation, I know I have been infected by the Peter Pan syndrome so common to the 1946-64 group. "I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up!" But, then, why get old when you can have Botox, a nip or tuck, and knee-replacement surgery, and feel great? Why wear glasses when you can have laser surgery and "look years younger"? Why get fat when you can staple your stomach and pretend you're back at your "fighting weight"?
There are any number of indignities associated with reaching 65. Younger people call me "sir." I hate that. The well-behaved ones even open the door for me. That's not so bad. I enter cars butt-first now because it's easier to drag my legs in behind me. It also takes me longer; I no longer "hop" into a car. Two glasses of wine put me to sleep; double bacon cheeseburgers give me gas. Peeing takes longer during the day but happens too much in the middle of the night. My feet get cold if I don't wear warm socks. My doctor, my preacher and my broker are all younger than I am.
My Aunt Bertha, who lived to be 104, once told me that "old age is bunk." She hated the loss of vigor, the death of her friends and siblings, and the gradual narrowing of her world. However, she managed to drive until she was 90, live independently until she was 98 and enjoy a glass of sherry "for medicinal purposes" until she was 102. I intend to follow her example, God willing.
It is true that, just when you start getting good at this thing called life, your machinery wears out. But, if I follow the manufacturer's maintenance schedule diligently, rotate the tires and occasionally buy a new battery, maybe crossing the Old Age boundary won't be so bad.
Part Two: The joys of registering for Medicare
