At a Noah's this morning, the kid behind the counter gave me an unsolicited 10 percent senior discount on my bagel sandwich. The clichéd response would have been indignation, a harrumph and a demand to see the manager.
Not here. I was like, "Score! That's 60 more cents to toss into my Hair Club for Men fund."
Bring it on, corporate America. Dear landlord, if you're reading this, how about 10 percent off my rent? Hey, Artichoke Joe's. Gimme $100 in chips for $90. I'm old. I've earned it."
People tell me I look younger than 60, but the Noah's clerk can be excused. I was unshaven, and had just finished a two-mile power walk and desperately needed to pee. Maybe the last thing that got me the discount. With apologies to Simon and Garfunkle, the senior-citizen theme song could be, "Hello bathroom my old friend."
I don't feel 60, whatever that's supposed to feel like. I've dropped nearly 20 pounds post-retirement and resumed a regular walking regimen. Fitness seems like a common-sense priority for anyone who alights from the figurative treadmill of the daily work grind, not just to potentially extend life, but to make retirement pursuits more enjoyable.
Still, turning 60 hit me harder than 50 did, and more mentally than physically.
You do the math and realize how much of your life has passed compared to how much remains. The temptation to brood over mortality sometimes overpowers your gratitude and mantra that every year after surviving cancer is a gift.
The despair of moving into my seventh decade is really not a function of the ever-louder TICK TICK TICK of life's clock, however. Most of the time I am blessed with the perspective that comes with good health -- physical and financial -- and the zen of the unrelenting cycle of life and death that comes to all beings, planets and galaxies.
We all die. You'd have to have quite an ego to take it personally.
It took me awhile to divine the true source of the intermittent despair. It has everything to do with my second-favorite topic beyond baseball -- politics.
We white, straight males have enjoyed a privilege of ignorance, sheltered from the breadth of the racism, misogyny, sexism and anti-gay hatred that still make life miserable for so many Americans. That ended with Barack Obama's ascent to the presidency in 2009, for it smoked out all the creepy-crawlies who felt aggrieved by the maturity this country showed in moving forward.
By the time Donald Trump befouled 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. in 2017, the state of America had become all too clear. On Jan. 6, 2021, when the nation survived a white-supremacist coup attempt, nobody could deny how backwards we have gone.
Therein lies the nexus with my impending senior-citizenry.
I know our society is fucked up. I know it will be repaired. But the realization that I won't live to see it hit me like a Wile E. Coyote anvil to the head.
Granted, this is selfish. Working to improve life for the next generation is our sacred duty, right? Designing and laying the foundation for a beautiful building should be just as rewarding as seeing it gleam in the skyline, no?
But I still wonder how Gaudi felt when he knew he would never see a Sunday service in his masterpiece, the Sagrada Familia. Was he OK with that? Saddened?
The pursuit of instant gratification is ignoble, but difficult to shake just the same.
We who will not live to see the society we idealize have a recourse. We can get off our butts and do what we can to accelerate the process. Now, in retirement, I hope to find my way there. My initial weapon is social media, saying what's on my mind and hoping I can make at least one person think.
You can help us, youngsters. Keep feeding us bagels at 10 percent off so we have the energy to help enrich your lives down the road.
