Sorry David Bowie, but I no longer qualify as one of the “Young Americans”… and since you did that song on the Dick Cavett Show, neither do you.
Yesterday I had to renew my annual membership at my local rec center, and because I’m now 50, I get a discounted rate. The $10 in savings doesn’t come close to making up for the humiliation of hearing the teenager behind the counter chirping “you get a senior discount!”
Funny thing is, they originally had an incorrect date of birth for me – 4/15/75 – so they thought I was 40, not 50. Must be that Grecian Formula that I’ve been using.
I’m OK with being 50 though. Heck, I have another decade and a half to go before I’m officially part of “Older Americans Month” (which is every May for Americans who are 65 or older). Not that there’s anything wrong with growing old… it certainly beats the alternative. However, listening to this gorgeous Courtney Barnett song about growing up and growing old will make you want to stop the clock.
Alright, enough of this newfangled blogging business. I’m going to have some prunes, watch “Murder, She Wrote” and take a nap. Get off my lawn!
Ah, life. It’s a crazy thing, isn’t it.
Hope you don’t mind but I’ve organized a game of Kick the Can late tonight in front of your house.
Welcome to the club, pal! I’ve been told by my wife that 50 means you can now proclaim, “I’m 50…and I don’t give a shit!” Very liberating, I must say. So next time that little punk talks about senior discounts, turn around, give him your best Clint Eastwood glare and slowly, deliberately walk him back into a wall. Then tell him in a low, gutteral growl that your prostate aches, your hearing is bad, your knee buckles involuntarily, but your fists are still made of stone and you consider 30 days in the hole to be a welcome respite from the din of a teenage-filled home. “Wanna talk about senior discounts again? Well do ya, punk?”