Good News: "You've Managed to Live 60 Years!"
Bad news: "You're 60."
This year is my 60th. As my birthday approaches, I have had time and cause to reflect on turning 60.
To summarize my overall feelings about it:
I.
Hate.
It.
It’s not exactly clear to me why my 60th is bothering me so much, but it is.
I went back and tried to remember each of my decade birthdays (with mixed success) to see if any of these were as annoying as this one:
10): No memory whatsoever, but I’m sure it involved a Snoopy-themed birthday party (I kept those going well into my college years.)
20): No memory of this one either (other than the Snoopy tablecloth, napkins and paper cups filled with vodka.)
30): Jumped out of an airplane. On purpose. It was fine. No need to do it again.
40): Bad one. My dad was dying. Ate my birthday dinner in the hospital. Remember thinking that it could hardly get worse…
50): …Got worse! I had a heart attack. So, that sucked.
Five of my high school mates and I recently celebrated the 60th birthdays of two of these dear high school friends. We were on a Zoom call for about an hour, spread from coast to coast. It was great. The six of us have managed to stay connected since we graduated and the older I get, the more I appreciate all of them.
Recently, I texted the following to this group, four of whom have kids ranging from college and older:
A part of me can’t understand why kids today don’t care or have never even heard of Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd. But then I remember that “Dark Side of the Moon” came out 51 years ago.
When we were in high school, say, in 1980, if some old geezer told us how great the music was in HIS day 50 years ago, he’d have been prompting us to listen to Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Bing Crosby.
And while I can appreciate all those musicians now, a 16-year-old Bill Baker would have rather sipped a tall, cold glass of Drano than listen to any of them.
Bottom line: To today’s kids, Jimi Hendrix = Benny Goodman.
Some form of this crops up regularly. I asked a young friend of mine (college sophomore) if she had ever seen the movie “Pretty Woman” and she said “I’ve heard of it, but never seen it.”
Whoa. Then again, that would have been like my grandmother asking me if I had ever seen “The Jazz Singer” (the Al Jolson version.)
Or a conversation with another early 20-something:
Me: “I learned how to drive on a stick shift.”
Him: “What’s that?”
I guess the reason 60 is bugging me so much is that it is the first “zero” birthday that I’ve had time to reflect on.
Zero through 30 I was distracted by youth.
40 & 50 I was distracted by death (my dad’s and then nearly my own.)
So here I am at 60, healthy, happy and with plenty of time to consider how miserable I am to be 60.
It’ll pass, like a mild bout of heartburn.
But be warned: If you can’t reach me, it is because I am sitting in a dark room, with a set of corded Pioneer headphones, listening to a vinyl Emerson, Lake & Palmer album while drinking a warm Michelob and pretending that I just read and understood “The Plague” by Albert Camus.
Don’t worry. I’ll snap out of it in time for #70.
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