The Public Eye

printed 03/08/2019

A friend stopped me the other day and said, “I’ll be turning 70 this year. How did this happen?” Another friend asked a similar question about an hour later, and then, standing outside the CVS after filling our prescriptions, Mayor Rick Meehan observed, as we watched another friend head inside for monkey-gland anti-aging extract or something, “You know, we used to see our friends at the bar during happy hour. Now, we’re meeting at the pharmacy. What happened?”

Meehan’s a sprout at 69-and-a-half years of age, the other friends are either turning 70 or, like me, waved goodbye to it a couple of years ago, and the person who went in to obtain the Ancient Swedish Youth Retention Serum and Meatball Dipping Sauce? Well, who knows how old he is?

The point is, we’re Baby Boomers, which means nothing happens to us that isn’t the Most Significant Thing of All Time.

Sure, our parents and grandparents went through this, but that was them and they were old. But Baby Boomers in their 70s? That’s just unnatural. Here’s why: one, we invented rock n’ roll and, two, acid rock, muscle cars, great hair and free love just don’t square with playing Bingo on Wednesdays.

Millennials? Hell, they’ll probably be playing Bingo in their 40s, while we’ll be sucking up their Social Security and boogieing the night away, or at least until Jeopardy.

Which brings me to a point: Although everyone, with luck, is destined to get older, I’m sure no one can get older better than we can.

We’re doing it with infinite coolness, as in having our hips replaced because it’s a trend, and getting not just quadruple bypasses, but macramé quadruple bypasses with paisely stents.

It was with that in mind that I recently bought suspenders, not because my rear-end now refuses to uphold its end of the deal, or that my growing middle section has replaced my waist with a DMZ of sorts, but because, as ZZ Top observed, “every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.”

I put them on, nice pants, good shirt, and went downstairs to wow my marital associate with my excellent sartorial style.

“How about this? I said, showing off my inordinately cool gear, ala Leonardo DiCaprio in “The Great Gatsby.”

She eyed me up and down, and replied, “Great, where’s your banjo?”

On the other hand, getting old might not be as much fun as it needs to be. Chances are though, I can get a prescription for that. We’ll discuss it the next time we meet at CVS.

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