counsel's Full Review: Dave Barry - Dave Barry Turns 50
It sidles up to you like an old friend, one who believes it should keep its enemies close by. It infiltrates you like high-proof liquor, not showing its dark side until it is too late. And you feel it then. The joints, instead of gliding smoothly, feel as if they have been permanently sprained. Your body rises from a chair as if gravity has been doubled. And it happens, then, the slow unwinding of the once-tight chromosomes, the softening of once-hard stomachs and arms, the skin releasing its firm grip on your skull. Oh yes.
This is my last summer of middle age; the last time I can say that I am suffering from mid-life crisis and have the physical and mental wherewithal to actually act the part; i.e., flirting with women half my age, combing over the bald spot, driving convertible sports cars recklessly, leaving my shirt unbuttoned at the most unfortunate moments and asserting my "freedoms" - in other words, doing things that anyone else would call "acting like an idiot." However, at middle-age, being an idiot is a choice, by God, not something that is forced upon you.
And it is forced upon you when you turn fifty. And that happens to me this summer. I need to be prepared.
Dave Barry, America's chronicler of life's foibles, charts this transformation from man to beanbag, force of nature to nature's calls, ramrod to bent reed, in his prophetic Dave Barry Turns 50. It is no use dwelling on the facts of turning 50, he says, because so many new things are happening to your body it's like going through adolescence all over again. And since there's so many things happening, it's a sure bet you won't remember them from one day to the next. But if it's like adolescence, I think, it's only because of the changes, not because of youthful exhuberance - all the new hair sprouting on strange parts of your body, your sudden inability to read anything smaller than 18-point type, and your propensity to walk around like Amos McCoy, saying "Con-SARN it!!" Hmm. If only hair sprouting from your ears was another sign of puberty, instead of - well, you know.
Oh, yes, it's going to happen to you. Yes indeedy.
Barry's book spends an inordinate amount of time, compared with his other works, chronicling the history of the present generation of aging folk - that being the Boomers - and how they got to be the way they are, and why they have a bunch of sniveling Gen X-ers complaining about how they must clean up the mess the Boomers are leaving behind. As if the X-ers aren't leaving a fine little mess of their own in the short time they've been here. Wait'll they hear what their kids have to say about them. I'll be looking for the fallout in the editorials in the months and years to come.
If I can read them, that is. I find Barry's observation to be true, that I do whatever I can to avoid looking old (and thus convincing myself I'm not), and the main thing these days is not wearing my reading glasses. If I can avoid that "doddering old fool" look most often invoked by the ubiquitous squint, followed by pulling out the reading glasses, then I am not really old. Of course, no one cares to comment to me about how I look when I place the menu on the table and walk three paces away to read it. I like the way it looks in its entirety, OK? It's an aesthetic thing.
But after the introduction, Barry's book has three rather largish sections - The Fifties, The Sixties, The Seventies - that set forth the incidents and events that make the Boomers what they are. We saw the advent of the Iron Curtain, rock and roll, atomic power and the space age all at once. Jimi Hendrix was a high school idol. The volume level of his guitar was a thing of legend, a religious experience. If we were to hear it now, it would also be a religious experience - we, in our fifties, would believe we'd been sent to Hell.
Oh, and many of us had CB handles. Do you remember yours? Neither do I, thank God.
After the rather lengthy historical recap, the truly therapeutic part of the book begins. Barry reminds me that, other than meeting other people my own age that look like Grandpa Walton, there is something good about reaching the Fifties. I'll think of it if you give me some time. In the meantime Barry points out something else truly horrible - one of the worst things of all - The Letter. You know which one I mean. It's the letter inviting you to join the AARP, which, we are told, means "American Association of Retired Persons Who Are Always Ahead of You in Line Asking if They Can Get A Discount." It's a large and powerful association, like the Mafia in many ways but more concerned about dietary fiber and phlegm. And so Barry exhorts us to unite so we can pay lobbyists to harangue Congressmen about anything we don't like. If those legislators don't change their minds, their bodies will be found bound with support stockings and covered with vicious welts applied with cane tips.
And, if AARP is too stuffy for you, he proposes an alternate organization: BARF (Boomers Against Reaching Farthood). The membership requirements are too lengthy to set out here, but suffice it to say that most Boomers will pre-qualify.
But there ARE good things about turning fifty. After all, the best things in life are a good deep breath of fresh air, an orgasm and a bowel movement. At fifty, if something surprises or excites us, all these things happen simultaneously. If we're really lucky, it'll happen at least once or twice a year. See? I knew I could put a little cheer in you old farts' hearts.
The exhortation for unification is followed by tips on Looking Young ("Your body doesn't age when you're sleeping"), a recap of things learned in Fifty Years of Life ("A person that's nice to you but rude to the waiter is not a nice person"), and financial advice, such as retirement planning and sending your kids to college (or, "You Really Only Need One Kidney"). And ultimately and most importantly, Facing the D-word. Death. How do you prepare for that? Most of us, given our upbringing, look forward to going to Heaven and seeing our dear departed loved ones. The problem is that we didn't care all that much for the dearly departed before they departed. So this is a quandary, a true head-scratcher - how do we get ready for death?
Get Barry's book. I'm not one for spoilers, so don't expect the answer here. Don't expect much of anything else, either - I'm too old to do your thinking for you, you young whelp.
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