I don’t think this reflects an “ageist” bias against those who have reached such withering heights as much as an understanding that people in their late 70s and 80s are wilting. I speak with some authority. I am now 76 light years younger than our president. I feel fit, I swing dance and salsa and can do 20 pushups in a row. However, I confess that I have a certain loss of, shall we say, bubbly. Joe Biden could easily make it to 86 by the time he finishes his second term. After all, it’s now considered a bit of a bummer to die before 85. Three score and ten is the life span specified in the Bible. Modern technology and Big Pharma add at least a decade and a half. “After 80, it’s gravy,” my father used to say. Joe will be on the edge of the gravy train. Where will it end up? There is only one possibility. I find myself reading the obituary pages with increasing interest, noting “Older than me” or “Younger than me.” Most of the time I forget my age. The other day, after lunch with some of my graduate students, I caught our idol in a shop window and for a moment wondered about the identity of the short old man in our midst. It’s not death that worries a second term Biden. It is the declining ability that accompanies aging. When I get together with old friends, our first ritual is an “instrument recital” — how’s your back? heart? hip? vision? hearing? prostate? hemorrhoids? The recital can run (and ruin) an entire meal. The question my friends and I jokingly (and cruelly) asked each other in college – “get a lot?” – now it doesn’t refer to sex but to sleep. I don’t know anyone over 75 who sleeps through the night. When he was president, Bill Clinton prided himself on having just four hours. But he was in his forties at the time. (I also remember the cabinet meetings where he slept.) How is Biden doing? My memory for names is horrible. I once asked Ted Kennedy how he remembered names and he advised me that if a man is over 50, just ask “how’s the back?” and he will think you know him. I often can’t remember where I put my wallet and keys. Some nouns have completely disappeared. Even when they are rediscovered, they have a devilish way of disappearing again. Biden’s Secret Service detail may be worried about his wallet and he has a pager for weird nouns, but I’m sure he’s experiencing some decline in the memory department. I no longer feel much enthusiasm for travel and, like Philip Larkin, I would like to visit China provided I could get home that night. Air Force One makes this possible in most cases. It also has a first-class bedroom and bathroom, so I don’t expect Biden’s travels to be too taxing. I am told that after 60 one loses half an inch of height every five years. That doesn’t seem to be a problem for Biden, but it’s a challenge for me since I didn’t reach five feet at my peak. If I live as long as my father lived, I may disappear. Another reduction I’ve noticed is tact. I recently gave the finger to a driver who recklessly passed me. Nowadays, giving the finger to a stranger is in itself a reckless act. I’m also noticing less patience, perhaps due to an unconscious “use by” timer that now clicks away. I’m less tolerant of long lines, automated phone menus, and Republicans. How the hell does Biden maintain tact or patience when dealing with Joe Manchin? The style sections of the newspapers tell us that the 70s are the new 50s. Seventies need to be fit and alert, exercise like crazy, have roaring sex and party until dawn. Trash. Inevitably, things start to fall apart. My aunt, who lived to be ninety, told me “getting old is not for sissies”. Towards the end he repeated this phrase every two to three minutes. I remain optimistic—despite a tumultuous Republican Party, the ravages of climate change, near-record inequality, a possible nuclear war, and a stubborn pandemic—mostly because I still spend most days with people in their twenties whose breezes raise their spirits. my mood. Maybe Biden does too. But I feel more and more out of it. I make videos on TikTok and Snapchat, but when my students mention Ariana Grande or Selena Gomez or Jared Leto, I have no idea who they’re talking about (and frankly, I don’t care). And I find myself using words – “so”, “absolute”, “so”, “tony”, “brilliant” – that my younger colleagues find charmingly old-fashioned. If I mention ‘Rose Marie Woods’ or ‘Jackie Robinson’ or ‘Ed Sullivan’ or ‘Mary Jo Kopechne’, they’ll be confused. The culture has been turned upside down in so many ways. When I was 17, I could walk into a pharmacy and confidently ask for a pack of Lucky and nervously whisper a request for condoms. Now it’s the exact opposite. (I quit smoking a long time ago.) Santayana said that the elderly have premonitions about the future because they cannot imagine a good world without themselves in it. I do not share this view. Instead, I think my generation—including Bill and Hillary, George W., Trump, Newt Gingrich, Clarence Thomas, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, and Biden—has done it royally. The world will probably be better off without us. Joe, please don’t run.
