Eighty F*cking Years Old?

Today

Yours truly, almost 80 years ago

Friends,

Today I start my ninth decade on earth. It’s astounding and distressing, but I suppose it’s better than the alternative.

In his latter years, my father would always answer my weekly phone question, “How are you, Dad?” with a brisk “Still here!”

Several of my joints ache, I can’t remember shit, I can no longer do 20 pushups at a clip, several good friends have passed, my bald spot is claiming more territory, and I can’t hear very well (especially in restaurants). But, hey, I’m still here.

And hardly alone. All 1946 boomers still here are turning 80. More babies were born in 1946 than in any other year of American history up to then — 3.4 million of us little darlings, 20 percent more than the year before. Which is why it was called a boom.

Trump is now 80. I’m not proud of that. He’s a wreck of a human being, physically, mentally, and morally.

George W. Bush will be 80 in 12 days. Trump is probably the best thing ever to happen to George W. because George W. will no longer be remembered as the worst and stupidest president in modern American history.

Bill Clinton has another month or so before he’s 80. He still looks great, but his voice seems to have gained two octaves, sounding rather like a squeaky tire. That’s another thing that happens.

Dolly Parton has been 80 since January 19 of this year. I still haven’t met her. Meeting her has been on my bucket list for six decades. She’s my height. We have similar values. I’ve been in love with her since I was 15, but so far, zilch.

Cher has been 80 since May 20 of this year, and I haven’t met her, either. But I take heart that someone can look so fabulous at 80.

When I was a small boy, my grandma Frances was courted by a man named Jack Hirsch, who was then 80. I had never before encountered someone as old as Jack. I was scared to speak loudly in his presence, or sneeze, or cough, for fear he’d fall over and die. I remember thinking he could be Methuselah (who, according to the Bible, lived until the ripe old age of 969).

What happens after you hit a ripe old age? Do you ripen until you rot?

Three score and ten is the number of years of life set out in the Bible. Modern technology and Big Pharma add at least a decade, bringing us 1946 boomers to where we are now. Beyond this is an extra helping. “After 80, it’s gravy,” my father used to say. (His gravy lasted almost 22 years.)

All this celebratory nonsense about America’s 250th obscures that we’re still a baby nation. Lay three of us 80-year-olds end-to-end and we’re almost as old as the country. It was roughly 80 years between the nation’s founding and the Civil War, another 80 or so between the Civil War and World War II, and then about 80 from the end of World War II until now.

Life expectancy for American women is now 81.4 years on average; for men, 76.5, so I’ve already beaten the odds. Why do women outlast men by more than five years? Has evolution made them stronger? Or do men get worn down by competing with other men — testosterone poisoning’s revenge? And if it’s the latter, why the hell is Trump still alive?

Lifespan is important, but health-span is equally important. By health-span I mean how long you feel well.

Yesterday I ran into a former student who upon seeing me exclaimed, “You look great!” I thanked her even though she was probably just being polite. An elderly friend once told me there were four ages to life: youth, middle age, old age, and “You look great.” I’m now in the fourth stage.

My wish for you is that you have a long lifespan and a long health-span, that you relish every day you have, spend time with people you love and value, let go of all the petty crap, wish no one ill (except perhaps Trump), and continue to fight for what’s good and noble and important.

And regardless of your age, my thanks to you for joining me on this journey.

(By the way, you look great.)