Thinking Out Loud

By Gerard Meister

I was feeling pretty good about myself earlier this year when my children threw me a great party for my 70th birthday. I told all assembled (there were a few friends there, too) that I didn't feel this way when I hit 60, because 60 is the old age of youth, but 70 is the youth of old age. "So, dear friends and family," I waxed poetic as I blew out the candles. "The best to come is yet to be."

We got home late after the shindig, but still in time for the 11:00 o'clock news. The lead story was about an elderly woman who must have stepped on the gas instead of the brake as she was parking and drove her car into a pizza parlor. No one was hurt, thank God, but then I learned from the reporter that the elderly woman was going to turn 70, next week. It took a while to register that this elderly woman was my age. I growled to my wife that the network would get a better perspective on the events of the day if they hired at least one newscaster old enough to have voted for Ronald Reagan.

The following morning at the gym I was working out next to a guy and both of us were watching a television monitor replaying a towering home run Mark McGwire hit the night before. "Wow," the guy said, as he watched the ball soar into the stands.

"Oh yeah," I said. "Mantle hit a ball out of that park that they're still looking for."

"Gee," the guy said. "I wish I had seen Mickey Mantle play."

"Where were you for those eighteen years, in Siberia?" I asked.

"No," he laughed. "When Mantle retired in '68, I was only three."

"My God," I suddenly realized. "The Mick hasn't played for thirty years, gosh it seems like yesterday." I smiled at the guy as he toweled off and left. I never saw him again, but you can bet me his name's either Scott or Jason.

When I got home I flipped on the television and was channel surfing because there's nothing on in the afternoons. I hit a program with a cute premise: they show you scenes of established stars going back to day one in their careers. The first clip was Arnold Scwartzenegger on "The Dating Game" about twenty-five years ago. Very interesting, he looked a trifle thinner, but his accent was thicker.

The next star, a sweet young thing whose name I didn't catch, was on a clip going back to '92. At first I thought it might be the old biddy that told the story in "Titanic." Then I realized the host was talking about this '92, not the other one; 1892. I couldn't believe my ears. The newest suit in my closet is older than that. But the worst was yet to come.

A couple of days later I decided to go over to my HMO's office to give them a piece of my mind. On a lark I took one of those County busses, just to see what it was like. Now you should know that here in Palm Beach, Florida the County's busses ride around all day as empty as a pitcher of beer at a bowler's convention. Except for the one I got on. Seems an entire class of kids was on a field trip and every seat was taken. I stood in the aisle not ten seconds when a young pup got up and offered me his seat.

"Thanks pal," I said. "But what makes you think I want to sit down?"

"Mister," he said. "We're taught to always let you seniors have a seat."

Not wanting to make a fuss, I sat down and gave the tittering kids my best smile. When I saw the class preparing to get off at my stop I edged forward as the bus nosed to the curb and sprang for the door to show those whippersnappers how fast I could still move. I beat 'em all, but pulled a groin muscle when I jumped down to the sidewalk.

I was still limping so badly when I got back to the bus stop about an hour later that the driver helped me board and gave me the best seat, the one right behind him. I thanked the guy very much, and asked if he wanted to see my I. D. when I handed him the senior fare.

"Don't tell me you're a senior citizen," the driver said, with a broad grin.

"Only when it comes to discounts," I said, and smiled back.