On a birthday passing

      Now that my birthday officially has passed and I am a year older, I know that getting older for many of us is really getting old. It’s tough being an aging boomer now, even if we do qualify for Senior Day on Thursdays at the supermarket.

      Frankly, it’s tough because despite serious efforts to stay current, up-to-the-minute and chill, many of us still don’t know the difference between hip hop and rap. We update our LinkedIn profiles, just in case, although there’s nothing much to update. We eat ceviche, even if we don’t know what it is or how to pronounce it. We wonder why we are physically incapable of being able to call anybody “bro” or “dude.”

      We continue to confuse WhatsApp with Snapchat and Instagram with Instamatic. We are embarrassed that we can’t tell one Taylor Swift song from another and don’t know if Kendrick is the good guy and Drake is the bad guy. 

      Despite playing brain games to ward off dementia and drinking kombucha to ward off the brain games, here’s the reality: in many ways, time does appear to have passed us by, just like how we’ve been passed in the slow swimming lane by that 12-year-old with a kick board.       

      Of course, we’ve all been down this road before. When I was about to turn 30, at that time we were warned not to trust anyone over 30, I told friends 30 was only a number and not to worry. Then on the morning of my 30th birthday, I of course woke up covered in locusts.

      But now I’m at an age which is supposed to be the new 60. And 60, of course, is supposed to be the new 40 and 40 is supposed to be the new 28. And who the hell knows what 28 is supposed to be? 

      Yet now, I need to admit, I’m sorta kinda really old. I’m way beyond the age my parents were when I thought of them as being ancient. I’m way beyond the age I thought I’d ever be.

      So, to hell with it. I may not know the actual lyrics of any Taylor Swift song and absolutely cannot do a not-completely-awkward fist bump. But I reassure myself by remembering that Bob Dylan is still touring at 84. Paul McCartney is still performing at 82. And Willie Nelson, bless his soul, is still out there at 114. Or 91, whatever.

      That is, despite my annoying birthday, despite the pain and aches and pills, I have decided, yeah, I’m going to keep on keeping on.