How To Really Tell If You're Getting Old

Here’s the trouble with life – when it comes to age, you can fool some of the people all of the time, all of the people some of the time, and then you can delude yourself as often as you like. But sooner or later, the truth comes back to bite you!

In our quest these days to believe we are younger than we are, and to convince others of the same, we have accomplished many feats to promote the illusion…and delusion.  We act young, we think young, and God help us, do everything imaginable to look young!!  We dye hair, attach hair, grow hair, transplant hair, plug hair, shave hair, wax hair, depilitorize hair, bleach hair, laser hair, and when all else fails, just shave our heads so no one will look at anything else.  Every day there are new gadgets on TV for nose hair and ear hair. This is just for hair…we won’t go into skin, body build, sucking the fat out, putting the silicone in, so on and so forth.  There are facelifts and magical creams.  Now I hear you can freeze your fat cells...I'm not sure where they go, but when I see some of the faces of movie stars who have had too much silicone ending up lopsided on their faces, I would really worry where these frozen fat cells go.  I of course would love to freeze my thighs, but what if the frozen fat cells slide down to my ankles?...It would be like having a uni-brow, only a uni-ankle, and I would have to hop everywhere.

But what happens for me, is that just when I’m having a good day, or at least a good  moment, and feeling pretty young and groovy, some bit of minutiae hits me over the head with a reality check.

For example, the last time you had to put your year of birth on a computerized form, how long did it take you to scroll the list of dates?  Now even if you give yourself a grace period of ten years since they usually start with this year, (not sure why, I am assuming not too many infants are applying for their credit scores), you have to keep scrolling for a long time.  Down through the 90’s, the 80’s, the 70’s…keep going... the 60’s, and finally, the 50’s!  I’m so glad I was born in 1950 and not 1949, another whole decade.

Same as last time I decided to find a music channel.  I clicked for an “oldies” station.  They said that the 80’s were the oldies!  I couldn't believe it!  I felt so confused and upset…the 80’s were not the oldies, they were part of my adulthood.  I was in my thirties.  So I tried to go to the 70’s…they were the golden oldies.  I tried the 60’s…they were the classic oldies.  Finally I tried the 50’s…they were the classics…sort of like Tale of Two Cities…classics!  Not to be confused with classical music by Beethoven or Mozart…I liked it better when Great Balls of Fire was one of the oldies.  Not a classic...it just doesn't sound right.

Another thing that can backfire is having young friends.  Because many of the women I work with are quite a bit younger than me I often have close friends who are younger.  Now this is very uplifting, as I think we tend to reflect the company we keep, and it is fun to be out with or collaborating at work with younger people. No one seems to notice any difference, we like the same things and usually love the same girl talk, we're all best of friends.  Until that one fateful moment, when I am talking about something I used to like, or something I remember, or something I once did, and one of them says…”Oh yeah, my mother tells me the same thing.”  Damn. 

And finally, there is the big mother of the age reminders, the jolt out of the blue, the dreaded question from strangers and friends – how old are your children?  Why is it so hard to realize that my son in a few years will be hitting forty, when I know I am already on the dark side of sixty?  Why do I get so confused, and have to stop and remember…I am not still in my forties. If my son is in his forties, then logic tells me I can't be the same as him.  But I think I'm in my forties, I dyed my hair this month, I know what an I-pod is. But oh yeah, I had to have my grandchildren teach me how to use it.

So I guess the point here is, it is a worthy goal.  And good for us for being young at heart, and wanting to have fun, and even thinking we should have sex!!!  Why not.  We earned it. We were the generation of the birth control pill, and now we have the blue pill...guess we were meant to be the generation of great lovers.  And as long as we pursue this goal, there will be manufacturers of a million products promising us the desired results.  So on our good days, we should persevere.

But I have to confess, on my tired days, I may start to rethink...because... let's face it, you can fool some of the people…a few of the people…and even yourself, mmmmm, once in a while?

In the meantime, I'm going to get some ice cubes.

Remembering who we were...what we said.

Viagra Lady

I would really like to be one of those Viagra ladies.

You know, the women on those Viagra commercials, who are oozing fermones to beat the band, and who have men lusting after them because they look so gorgeous digging in their gardens and painting walls.  Most of my friends are my age, and I don’t think any of us look quite like these ladies – especially when we’re gardening, because I hate to admit it, sometimes we perspire a little or get some of the dirt on us.

On the other hand, most of their husbands, boyfriends, or men I see in the grocery store don’t look like the Viagra men either.  So maybe that levels the playing field a little.  (One can hope).

The interesting thing about these commercials is that aside from the primary purpose of taking Viagra (ahem), if my eyes are to believe what I see, there are many amazing side effects. 

For the men, taking Viagra apparently gives you the body of a man in his thirties, and movie star looks, with charisma and sexiness that radiates from every slight smirky smile or longing gaze.  Perhaps I have been cheated in life, since I’m not sure I remember ever having that effect on a man…but, maybe, now that I am in the age range of the Viagra men, it will finally happen!

 And I just love all the scenarios, the couple doing every day things - reading a book, chores, choosing home renovations, and suddenly, the air is charged with electricity.  He looks at her, she looks at him looking at her, and whammo, off they go running up the stairs to the bedroom.  I suppose we should be grateful they are taking time to run up the stairs…but that is the beauty - no need to rush - it is long lasting.

The even more subtle message is that if you are lucky enough to be coupled with a Viagra man, you will look pretty darn beautiful, and at least twenty years younger than your real age.  I am not sure how this works, why all this sexual energy can transform every woman to movie star glamour, but if it works, I would like to be part of the research studies.

So, I am pondering the psychology of these commercials.  The basic premise is obvious, take this pill and you can… “ahem”,  at a moments notice.  And if you use this pill, not only is not shameful, you should probably aspire to do so, and then, you will be part of the Viagra culture.  Not only will you look like a Viagra man, you will get yourself a Viagra lady.  All aspects of life are pure bliss, from doing dishes to sitting on the sofa, and it is always just the two of you.  No jobs, infirmities, aging parents, children or grandchildren, worries or stress.  Always smiling, always gazing, always…well, you know.

And so, here we are again, the baby boomers, the first generation to experience the advent of the birth control pill…sexual freedom for woman…equality.  Now, forty and fifty years later, we are the first set of senior citizens to be able to prolong this facet of our personas, through the use of a new pill.  When you think of it like that, it’s almost a little embarrassing.  I mean, we started out and now are ending up thinking about the same thing…ahem.  

And now we’ve made so much progress, we like to talk about it on TV!  But no pressure here, we all know that since the sixties, woman are appreciated for their minds, not their bodies. 

Please don’t think I am being critical, for in fact, I support the Viagra generation.  Anything that can make it fun to do chores is okay with me.  In fact, I need to confess, I am in one of those Viagra commercials.  I am the lady in the bathtub in the field, where you can only see the back of my head.  It’s the only part they would give me!

AARP...and Me

 

Not only do we baby boomers have our own generational title, we have our own organization developed for us based solely on one factor…our age!  Yep, whoever you are, wherever you are, if you are over fifty, you can join the AARP.  You can join for sixteen dollars a year…that’s of course only 1.33333333333333333333 dollars per month.

 

I have not researched the fact, but I feel fairly confident to say there is no other organization you can join for only this much money.  How can they afford this?  The answer is simple:

 

37 million members. 

  

Yikes!!!  That’s a lot of old people.  A virtual tsunami of walkers, prescriptions, and early bird dinners!  And I haven’t even joined yet, in spite of the enticing mailings I get nearly every week.  I don’t think they are missing me...let’s do the math.

37,000,000 X $1.33 = $492,100.00 (+) per month.

 

Or

 

$5,904,000 per year.

 

For some reason, this seems like a lot of money to me…nearly six million dollars.  What do we get for a membership?  A magazine, I know.  A very beautiful and informative website.  A lot of mailings.

 

The rest depends on who’s running this show.  They are a non-profit organization…they are world-wide…they are hard to track down I’m sure.  I am wondering if they put money into all of the discounts and package deals they offer and collaborate with all the vendors and service providers they promote.  It seems like they must.  But I have to wonder how much money is spent on promotions, mailings, and the website, to entice people to join, to get more money to spend on promotions, mailings and the website, to...well, you get the idea. 

  

I have avoided joining so far, as I did not want to identify myself as an old person, and in fact, am not a retired person.  I probably won’t be retired for a long time, so maybe I am not a good candidate.  But now that I have embraced my Baby Boomerness, maybe I will join.

  

I looked at the website for a while to “get a feel” of what they are all about.  It is a really comprehensive website, fairly appealing, and easy to maneuver…(for us old people).

 

Here is some of the information that jumped out at me:

 

• HEALTH:  Under “9 Health Problems” – Smelly Feet – they inform us that “what it is”…is exactly what you think.  Whew!  Glad to know that.  If at this stage of your life you have not figured out what to do about smelly feet, they offer some rather good suggestions.
• FOOD:  Under 16 Superfoods for a Longer, Healthier Life…they tell us the same 16 foods we have heard about from a million places.  Then, right next to it, is an ad so we can get a free donut at Dunkin Donuts every month with one large drink.  Hey, if we get that donut, we can join AARP for free almost.
• TRAVEL:  (this was the one I liked)  Go Wild – Really Wild! – in Las Vegas.  Now they’re talkin…because if I go to Las Vegas, I definitely intend to go more then a little wild.  On the other hand, on this same page, there is also advice on “Foods to Avoid Before Boarding a Plane”.  For some reason, this seems like a bit of a contradiction to me.  If I have to avoid flatulence producing foods before I get on the plane, how am I ever going to go wild once I get there?  I need to go back and read more. 

I think I will join the AARP, mostly because they won’t let me join the Girl Scouts, and I don’t get much mail lately as I do everything on my computer.  Then I can do more research.  And I will know what to do if I have particularly smelly feet at certain times.

 

So please don’t let them know I wrote this controversial piece about their organization, they may blacklist me…and that would be really depressing as I need to know about that wild in Las Vegas thing!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



I Never Wore Pearls While Vacuuming

For us leading edge BB’s, nothing is more fun than reminiscing over the old TV shows of the fifties.  I don’t think there could be any more blatant marker of the culture and lifestyle of the fifties than the programs on TV.

Many of them became colloquialisms of our culture, such as, “Well, they’re not exactly Ozzie and Harriet”, meaning someone is less than perfect, nice, innocent, naïve, and so wholesome it was almost hard to take.  Others became folklore and have lived on in some form or another, such as “Superman”.  Some provided land marks in the world of entertainment, such as the Ed Sullivan show which probably launched too many careers to count, rivaling only American Bandstand with Dick Clark.

I am certain that it would be next to impossible to find a young person today who would think any of our programs were entertaining.  If you strapped them to a chair and forced them to watch a black and white episode of Lassie, I am pretty sure they would essentially feel tortured.  Why did we think our programs were the best thing on earth, memorizing every day and time slot to be sure not to miss anything?  Why did we have three TV stations which ended broadcasting at 11:30, and so many shows we wanted to watch, that we had to be reminded to do our homework and play outside?

In our shows, there was no violence, no sex, no action beyond someone riding a galloping horse, no bad language, no sarcastic humor, no stupidity, an hour at most of world news, no live coverage, and, no reality TV!!!

To a certain extent, the tranquility and goodness portrayed by the families we loved to watch, was very much a reflection of our own lives: traditional family structures, dads going to work, moms at home baking and cleaning, and kids getting into occasional mischief.  I think there was one program, Father Knows Best, where there was no mother, because she died.  Teenagers were in angst as to whether they could go to the malt shop, trying to get a boy’s attention.  People danced, people cooked, and siblings got into minor conflicts.  Girls watched to get hints on what was fashionable to wear, and wished they could fix their hair so they would be as pretty as Shelley Fabere or Annette Funicello.  We raced in the door after school to watch American Bandstand, keep up on our teen idols, and learn how to dance.

On the other hand, there were times when this steady diet of perfect living could become confusing.  If your family was not perfect, (and whose was, even then), a young mind might start to feel badly or even embarrassed of their family.  If a mom yelled at her kids, instead of serving cookies and lemonade, that was a disappointment.  More seriously, if dad came home drunk, instead of smiling and talking about his day at the office, there was no way to know if anyone else had a dad that did that.  These TV families were a high standard to aspire to, but at least they were something to aspire to.

The worst part of it all was that after a steady diet of watching smiling moms and warm consoling dads, and our peers languishing in a nirvana of going to school where it was easy to get good grades, only to return home and have fun with their parents, friends, and pets, with never a blip on the screen, along came the sixties.  And while TV life progressed somewhat, it did not come close to the changes in our real lives.

We became teenagers, and everything didn’t come easy.  We had a hard time staying on the honor roll, sometimes friends got angry with us, and worst of all, our puppy love crushes were not always reciprocated.  Our parents were not always smiling, especially if we came in past curfew, or found out we had snuck a beer or cigarette the night before.  Inside ourselves, we felt worried, disappointed, and sometimes anxious and confused. 

And no wonder!

Between 1962 and 1969, it felt that the world had spun off its axis.  Beloved public figures like John F Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, and Martin Luther King were gunned down.  We were hearing terrible reports of what was going on in Viet Nam, and the nation suddenly became divided over a faraway place, with passions running so strong there were hateful stand-offs amongst families and neighbors.  With a new wave of music, came an influx of drugs and recreational activities that no one ever mentioned on Leave It To Beaver or The Donna Reed Show.  We were suddenly made aware of the fact that while many families had been surreally happy in the fifties, there were people of color and women who wanted to do more than bake cookies, who now were demanding equal rights. 

It gradually invaded our consciousness, that the peaceful existence of Opie, the Beave, and Ricky and David, was left somewhere behind in those big square boxes we sat in front of every night in a trance.

And I started to realize that while Donna Reed had always done her vacuuming in a perfectly crisp, cotton shirt-waist dress, perfectly coifed hairdo, pearls around her neck and smiling, I don’t think I ever saw my mother doing that.  (Furthermore, in looking back over my life, I have to tell you, I have never worn pearls while vacuuming, not once.)

The sixties collided with our adolescence.

It was time to figure things out. 

 

 

What's It All About, Alfie?



I decided to do a little research regarding this whole issue of "too many baby boomers becoming senior citizens", and thus have one word of advice:  DON'T DO IT!...that is, don't research statistics regarding the state of us "over sixty's".  Specifically do not Google "baby boomer statistics". 

I knew going in that it might be discouraging, however, as I scanned the first page of articles, it became apparent that the situation is far beyond discouraging.  Alarming and depressing would be more accurate descriptors...

How Did I Get Here?

People are always telling me I look young for my age…and I want to believe them! 

Because who wouldn’t? 

On the other hand, when I stop to think about it, these are people who (a.) have not seen me naked, (b.) have not seen me try to walk...