I was laughing so hard I â¦â
You open the card and hear âClean up on aisle 6â¦.â Ah, Depends humor.
I have to admit, though, a disturbing thing did happen on my birthday. I found myself driving in the middle lane on Route One with my left blinker on for no apparent reason. I knew Iâd eventually become a doddering old fart but I didnât think it would happen this fast.
But there seems to be good news on the horizon. Today, on CBS News online, another article on the aging of baby boomers, or in my case gayby boomers reported ââ¦signs suggestâ¦that boomers will enjoy not just increased longevity but better health as well. Boomers may be aging more slowly than previous generations because of healthy habits, such as less smoking and more exercise. Maybe 60 really is the new 50.â
Gee, I hope so. But that brings me to the next question. If we are going to live longer lives, how are we going to pay for them?
If I positively knew that the Mayan doomsday was coming, Mamma Mia could I have a great four years. Bring on the wine, women, song and Hostess Ho-Hos. But Quetzalcoatl, even if you could pronounce it, might not happen, and in that case, I have to figure out how long my money is going to last.
Perhaps as a result of this big birthday, or the fact that Iâdput it off long enough, I spent an evening last week with a friend who understands the mysteries of Microsoft Excel. Despite the accompanying Margaritas, it was a sobering exercise.
Since CBS News told me there was a damn good chance of achieving it, we did a spread sheet with the assumption that my spouse and I would live until 100.
But according to the increasingly annoying CBS News article, boomers who retire at 65 need to have enough money to support themselves for 20 to 30 years, and in some calculations that means having $2.5 million in the bank.
Holy Quetzalcoatl, Batman! Donât make me laugh. Or there will have to be cleanup on Aisle 6.
Best we can figure, we can live pretty well until our mid-80s and then, like those Grey Garden gals, itâs cat food in a ramshackle house on the shore for us.
I can see us now, sitting in our rocking chairs and staring at the navel between our breasts. With any luck I can still look at hers and she can still look at mine.
Although, if 60 is the new 50, maybe I can just wait a decade until Iâm 60 aqain and worry about the spreadsheet.
In the meantime, if you hear proof of doomsday let me know. And remind me to keep that left turn signal from blinking.
July 2008
ADDING INSULT TO INJURY
I felt like Yogi Bear, hibernating. Bonnie had knee surgery June 12 and I spent a week in the house, telecommuting and playing nurse.
I loved the hibernating, For an inveterate flit like me, generally juggling dozens of tasks in multiple places, youâd think being homebound would be akin to life without parole. No, I loved it so much it scared me. Truly not leaving the house for six days except to get the mail made me very, very content.
And I actually got a lot of work done between my medical rounds and watching coverage of Californiaâs gay weddings. Frankly, the reporting was shockingly positive.
Watching 80-somethings Phyllis Lyons and Del Martin be legally wed in the U.S. â and then seeing their smiling faces, in a photo 6-inches square, on Page One of the News Journal capped it. How I wish my mentors, Anyda and Muriel were still alive to bask in this. They became a couple two years before Phyllis and Del.
While the respectful coverage was a delight, it masked a scary new tactic of the homophobic right â they are being nice. And saying things like, âWe congratulate the marrying couples, but our fight is against activist judges.â Yeah, right.
The positive coverage contrasted completely with our surgery day in Philly. First, we arrived at the hospital armed with a weighty folder containing every notarized piece of paper we owned, attempting to
You open the card and hear âClean up on aisle 6â¦.â Ah, Depends humor.
I have to admit, though, a disturbing thing did happen on my birthday. I found myself driving in the middle lane on Route One with my left blinker on for no apparent reason. I knew Iâd eventually become a doddering old fart but I didnât think it would happen this fast.
But there seems to be good news on the horizon. Today, on CBS News online, another article on the aging of baby boomers, or in my case gayby boomers reported ââ¦signs suggestâ¦that boomers will enjoy not just increased longevity but better health as well. Boomers may be aging more slowly than previous generations because of healthy habits, such as less smoking and more exercise. Maybe 60 really is the new 50.â
Gee, I hope so. But that brings me to the next question. If we are going to live longer lives, how are we going to pay for them?
If I positively knew that the Mayan doomsday was coming, Mamma Mia could I have a great four years. Bring on the wine, women, song and Hostess Ho-Hos. But Quetzalcoatl, even if you could pronounce it, might not happen, and in that case, I have to figure out how long my money is going to last.
Perhaps as a result of this big birthday, or the fact that Iâdput it off long enough, I spent an evening last week with a friend who understands the mysteries of Microsoft Excel. Despite the accompanying Margaritas, it was a sobering exercise.
Since CBS News told me there was a damn good chance of achieving it, we did a spread sheet with the assumption that my spouse and I would live until 100.
But according to the increasingly annoying CBS News article, boomers who retire at 65 need to have enough money to support themselves for 20 to 30 years, and in some calculations that means having $2.5 million in the bank.
Holy Quetzalcoatl, Batman! Donât make me laugh. Or there will have to be cleanup on Aisle 6.
Best we can figure, we can live pretty well until our mid-80s and then, like those Grey Garden gals, itâs cat food in a ramshackle house on the shore for us.
I can see us now, sitting in our rocking chairs and staring at the navel between our breasts. With any luck I can still look at hers and she can still look at mine.
Although, if 60 is the new 50, maybe I can just wait a decade until Iâm 60 aqain and worry about the spreadsheet.
In the meantime, if you hear proof of doomsday let me know. And remind me to keep that left turn signal from blinking.
July 2008
ADDING INSULT TO INJURY
I felt like Yogi Bear, hibernating. Bonnie had knee surgery June 12 and I spent a week in the house, telecommuting and playing nurse.
I loved the hibernating, For an inveterate flit like me, generally juggling dozens of tasks in multiple places, youâd think being homebound would be akin to life without parole. No, I loved it so much it scared me. Truly not leaving the house for six days except to get the mail made me very, very content.
And I actually got a lot of work done between my medical rounds and watching coverage of Californiaâs gay weddings. Frankly, the reporting was shockingly positive.
Watching 80-somethings Phyllis Lyons and Del Martin be legally wed in the U.S. â and then seeing their smiling faces, in a photo 6-inches square, on Page One of the News Journal capped it. How I wish my mentors, Anyda and Muriel were still alive to bask in this. They became a couple two years before Phyllis and Del.
While the respectful coverage was a delight, it masked a scary new tactic of the homophobic right â they are being nice. And saying things like, âWe congratulate the marrying couples, but our fight is against activist judges.â Yeah, right.
The positive coverage contrasted completely with our surgery day in Philly. First, we arrived at the hospital armed with a weighty folder containing every notarized piece of paper we owned, attempting to
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