The other day a friend said to me, “Bill, don’t worry about your birthday, because 60 is the new 50.”
I also heard recently that 50 is the new 40. And someone told me 40 is the new 30. Well, if we keep playing this game, I can make the case that I’m really only 10 years old, and I qualify to be the 5th grader who claps the erasers after class. By the way, you need to be in my age range to have any idea what clapping erasers after class even means. It’s been decades since schools changed from blackboards and chalk, to either white boards with marking pens or video screens. In the good ol’ days it was a special privilege to be selected to take the erasers outside and clap them together until you were engulfed in a cloud of chalk dust. I’m sure that was great for the lungs, too. With all the chalk particles I inhaled back then, I’m surprised I even made it to 60.
Anyway, if 60 is the new 50 or 30 or fetus or whatever folks are claiming these days, that’s great; I’m immature enough to feel quite comfortable identifying as a young person. However, someone should explain this to my aching back, my right knee, and my swollen prostate. Those various body parts somehow didn’t get the memo. I’m pretty sure a young person doesn’t have to get up at 2 a.m. every night to use the bathroom (thanks, prostate!), and in the process limp down the hall (thanks, knee!) while reaching around and rubbing the shooting pain just above the left hip (thanks, back!). Also, if I pretend in my mind that I’m just a young pup, it won’t do any good if a different part of my mind can’t remember why I got up off the couch and walked into the kitchen — something that’s been happening far too frequently of late.
To be honest, whining about the aging process is getting a little tedious. People younger than me are thinking, “Oh shut up, Grandpa.” And people older than me are thinking, “Why did I come out here into the kitchen? No wait, now I remember: you ain’t seen nothing yet, punk. You think you have aches and pains now? Wait till you’re my age!”
Yeah, whining about getting old is a waste of time, not to mention boring. I mean, can you imagine how boring it would be if someone wrote about turning 60 in two consecutive newspaper columns? Sheesh. That’s pathetic. You’ll never catch me doing that. Hey, why did I sit down at this computer keyboard? Hmm, I can’t remember. Maybe I wanted to write something about St. Patrick’s Day, when we honor the patron saint of Ireland by chugging horrible green beer and throwing up in the bushes.
St. Patrick’s Day certainly is a fun holiday, but there’s another special day in mid-March. It might be someone’s birthday, but I’m drawing a blank right now. Oh well, if I think of it, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, did you hear that 60 is the new 50? Or maybe 70 is the new 20? I can’t quite remember how it goes, and I can’t remember who told me, or why, but I guess it’s important.
Anyway, I’ve got to get up and go into the kitchen now. Ouch, the ol’ knee and back don’t like it when I stand up too fast. Um, why did I come out here, anyway? I either need to get a snack or to clap some erasers. But I’d better go to the bathroom first. Now where is that room located again?