GEEZERHOOD — A dispatch from the frontier

After 40 years on the work-home-work treadmill I retired, A switch got flipped and suddenly I went from running to strolling. On either side of me the 9–5 world is still going full throttle.

The first weekday morning that I walked out the front door of my building into my newly retired universe I looked around and had an idea of what Neal Armstrong must have experienced when he stepped onto the lunar surface. The difference was that it was rush hour on West 86th Street and I was going to get a cortisone shot in my arthritic knee.

We give every phase of life a name. In the beginning we slice it thin into days, weeks and months, infancy, childhood, pre-adolescence, tweens, teenagers, and young adults. After young adulthood we get dragged into middle age in a ballet of smoke and mirrors self delusion that lasts for decades.

I’m 67. Middle age is in the rear view mirror but I’m not ready for geezerhood. For the time being I’m going with “tweezer”.

Time sneaks up on you. As a tweezer, small, but different things start to happen. You ask for senior price movie tickets and hope the cashier asks for some ID but she doesn’t raise an eyebrow. The security guard shining a flashlight in my bag on the way out of the library says “Thank you, young man”.

A young woman sitting in front of you on a rush hour subway train looks up and asks, “Want a seat?” This is one of my favs. Most old people on a crowded train are not about to declare, to an eye contact avoiding audience of New York City commuters, that they would really like to sit down. Instead, we smile and say “Thanks I’m good”. The kid has a feel good moment and gets to keep her seat. It’s the perfect crime then as soon as a seat opens up of natural causes we break the sound barrier to get our butt into it.

There are turning points, like the time I heard a passing hipster say, “Can I help you with those bags pop?”. In the movie version there would be a close up of my unsmiling, silent, “Are you talking to me?” double take. At that moment I knew I had crossed the “Who’s kidding Who Channel” and hit the beaches of old age.

I remember being a young jerk treating old people with clueless indifference, smiling politely while looking for an exit. I get it. The new models in the showroom are much more fun to be around than the “pre-owned cars” on the back lot.

For young people, old folks are floating around them in a passing sea of society’s invisible “others”. We are everywhere — hiding in plain sight, like the aliens in “Men in Black” waiting for Tommy Lee Jones to stick us with a knife to reveal a slimy, goopy bug from another galaxy. 15% of the US population is over 65. I see them now.

Part of being an aging boomer is waking up in a new advertising demographic. It’s obvious that no young person watches the evening news anymore because every ad is pushing drugs for old falling apart bodies. Mostly it’s commercials for penis and heart drugs featuring gray haired, medicated people, smiling bravely, often on merry-go-rounds. At the end a fast talker quietly says, “This drug may make your penis fall off or your heart stop working. If that happens call your doctor”.

Before you are officially old, the American Association of Retired Persons magazine starts mysteriously showing up in your mail like an invasive plant species. The AARP knows that marketing is all about self image delusion. Every month they put a beautiful aging movie star on the cover. Last month it was Jeff Daniels, “On the Greatest Challenge of His Career”.

The AARP magazine uses cover photos of beautiful people who are usually just north of 50, because they know that marketing to seniors is all about self image delusion. The AARP feature story is never about ordinary, unsexy people. A cover photo of Lou the plumber, holding a plunger, sharing memories of “the greatest unclogging challenge of his career” will not stop that magazine from going directly into the garbage along with the Costco tire rotation discounts.

The warranty for every body part doesn’t expire on the same day. Aging bodies are in daily combat with a fire breathing dragon called “Time”. Some days the dragon leaves you alone until a random moment when you catch your reflection in a store window and you can hear the dragon laughing.Visits with friends now start with everyone’s medical update.

Until recently I was just another aging idiot walking around thinking that I looked like I did 20 years ago. That ended when I got my new driver’s license. The license is good for 8 years but according to my picture the driver has already expired.

It’s hard to watch the things people do to fool themselves into thinking they are hiding the effects of aging. The top of our heads is the only body zone where you can make yourself look different without surgery. Hair is the aging person’s Waterloo in the battle with the Dragon Time. The available weapons include hair color, combovers, toupees and hair plugs. I understand that people need to do whatever they think works. The problem is that most of it doesn’t. I’m a big fan of keeping all body modifications species appropriate. Human hair does not come in fire engine red. 73 year old homo sapiens do not have a full head of wavy blond hair.

I understand that self image takes a hit as we age. It makes sense that people wear stuff that makes themselves feel better but people over 60 need to stop wearing brand new Harvard or Yale hats that they obviously just bought. I confess to having a large chip on my shoulder about people who need to advertise their Ivy League pedigree because I went to mediocre schools but come on guys. How different is it than hanging a sign from your neck that says; “ Not just another old schmuck- Got great grades in high school” ?

The reality of aging is like an annoying uncle, who shows up often and unannounced, just to remind you that life is a sexually transmitted ultimately fatal condition.

Now the curtain is up on the next act. The guy playing the lead has been aged by a makeup artist and the script ripped up. The rest of the play is an improv show. I’m doing my best to take it all in stride but I will be carrying a pair of scissors to cut off the man bun of the first kid who calls me “spry”.