The 50s Aint What They Used to Be

I just found out Patrick Dempsey is 50.  You might know him as Dr. McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy. He's the very definition of hot.

John Stamos and Rob Lowe are in their 50s. So is David Duchovny. Hot, hot, and hot.

Yes, there are well known sexy women in their 50s too, but I don't think about them as much. Ok, I am very close in age to Sarah Jessica Parker and when I reflect on which one of the Sex in the City characters I am, I believe myself to be a Carrie. Or possibly an Amanda.

50 doesn't look like it used to. Lew Parker, who played Marlo Thomas's father on the 1960s sit com, That Girl, was only 50 towards the end of that series. I would have put him at least at 65. Ed Asner, who played Lou Grant on the 1970s sit com, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, was only in his 40s at the time. I'd have guessed him at about 60.

I guess men didn't age as well back then. But they had to grow up faster than we did. They'd been through the Great Depression and World War II. They smoked more. They drank martinis at lunch. They didn't exercise. They wore black socks with everything.

Why is this on my mind? Because my birthday is this month. I will be 54.

I'm not saying I'm as hot as Patrick, John, or Rob, but they project good images to which one might aspire. Like, if I really tried, I COULD look as good as they do.

So am I more of a Rob Lowe or a Lew Parker?

On one hand, I show definite signs of age. I've been bald on top for quite some time. Gray hair is finally showing up around the edges. I sometimes groan when I rise from the couch. I have to hold my prescription bottles further away from my eyes in order to read them. I prefer the radio station that plays good music - from the 1980s. I listen to the radio.

On the other hand, many things that were true about me in my 20s are still true today. I wear shorts whenever I can get away with it. When I have to dress up I wear jeans. I don't own a suit. I never iron anything. I put off haircuts until I'm really shaggy. When I listen to music alone in the car (admittedly mostly 80s music), I turn the volume way up and sing along as loud as I can (when Like a Prayer comes on, I nearly drive off the road). I still don't know for sure what I want to be when I grow up.

I suppose around the mid-21st century, if the birthdays keep coming, millennial relatives who care enough to visit will find me confined to a rocking chair, blind as a bat, but still wearing shorts and listening to Madonna.

Deep, or at Least Random, Thoughts for the New Year

Suddenly, we've arrived at the end of 2012. Because I’m too exhausted to party after last week’s celebrations, I’m sitting here in my jammies waiting to ring in the new year with Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin on CNN. I have my celebratory Diet Squirt ready to pop at 10:00 p.m. mountain time when that ball drops in NYC.

Some random thoughts cross my mind:

• I have turned 50. 50! I don't know quite what to do with that, except maybe take a nap. I'm told that the 50s are a time to give back. Hmmm. Wait, was that give back or get back? Perhaps it is time to get back at people for all the stuff they've done to me.
• Just because I live with cats, doesn't mean I'm not also a "dog person." Why do you have to be one or the other?
• I like kids. Just not the ones that throw rocks at my windows.
• Money does not buy happiness, but it sure makes some things easier.
• Nothing enlivens the middle of the night like an anxiety attack.
• With my father's passing, I am now part of the oldest generation in my family. Whether this renders me a wise sage guiding the younger folks through the life's bumpy paths remains to be seen. More likely, a niece or nephew will be wondering whether they should invite old Uncle Bill to Sunday dinner this week, or could they put it off until later. I have started to practice asking my niece, Hannah, "Can you take me back to the home now? Matlock's on at 10:00."
• Buying that new (TV, computer, blue ray, etc.) didn't solve all my problems.
• It's difficult to be philosophical about vacuuming when the cats regularly throw up hairballs onto the newly cleaned carpet.
• One of the cats, Charles, will not allow the litter box to be clean. If I scoop the poop out, he immediately uses it. I don't get to enjoy a clean litter box even for a minute.
• Cooking at home saves money but sometimes the food isn't very good.
• Things are, over all, getting better. Sure, we have to deal with climate change and that supervolcano in Yellowstone is going to blow any time. But Obama was re-elected in spite of the typical Republican shenanigans. Technology, while challenging, really does improve our lives. Homophobia is in decline. The crime rate (high profile murders not withstanding) is falling to the point where they are even closing prisons in some places.
• Sometimes the only reason you do something is because it's the right thing to do.

Happy New Year.

Perky Coworker Reminds Me I'm Old

She sings a chipper "Good morning!" to me every day. I grunt in reply.

She literally texts her friends while she works, with no apparent distraction. I have to wear headphones so I'm not distracted by her giggling with other twenty-somethings nearby.

Either I'm too old or she's too young. She's 24. I'm 50 next week.

When she was born in 1988, I was older than she is now.

I have t-shirts that pre-date her. Most of my pots and pans were purchased before she existed, with S&H Green Stamps no less. I guarantee she doesn't know what Green Stamps are. If you don't know, Google it - it's how we used to get free stuff before credit card rewards programs.

In 1988 I was in graduate school, already jaded and cynical.

In 1988, Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted. I'm just now getting around to watching it.

I did watch a show called Thirtysomething, about some old people in their 30s.

In 1988 I also watched the Golden Girls. They were funny old ladies back then. When I watch the same episodes now, they seem much younger - how did that happen?

The youngsters I work with don't seem much bothered by our age differences. It's my hang up. They, like I, work hard and are deserving of respect.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking I should clean out my spice cupboard - some of that ground basil may remember the 1980s as well.

10,000 is a Lot of Steps

My new doctor is medically up to date, knowledgeable about all of my pre-existing conditions, and seems holistic in his outlook. He has a plaque on the wall from 5280 Magazine honoring him as a top Denver doc. And I'm really annoyed with him.

I figured I'd go see the primary care physician initially to get established in his practice, and then once a year for physicals and the occasional virus. My intake visit was supposed to be routine and quick; my insurance card would be copied, he would look in my ears with that pointy ear thing, I'd cough once or twice while he listened to my lungs, and I'll be on my way.

Not so fast.

After asking about my family history, checking my weight and waist size, and delving into my age (old), life style (sedentary), occupation (sedentary), and habits (sedentary), my new doctor decided I was at risk for heart disease. Long story short, I need more exercise than my four weekly gym visits, and I need to follow a stricter diet than my already established Weight Watchers inspired regime. He scheduled a follow up and gave me a month and a half to lose 10 pounds. So much for that perfunctory annual visit.

The good doctor also prescribed fish oil, a daily aspirin, and a pedometer which counts steps. I have to walk 10,000 steps each day.

The first day I had that little thing in my pocket, I conscientiously did my treadmill routine at the gym, parked further away than usual in the parking lot at work, took the stairs to my office instead of the elevator, walked to the bathroom countless times, hoofed it to the local BBQ place for dinner (I know, but I'm focusing on one goal at a time), took out the trash twice, and still barely cleared 9,000 steps. My god! What does a person have to do? I'll never make it! 

I don't really blame the doc. He's doing his job, and according to 5280, he's good at it. It's just that (and now we come to the whiny part of the blog) I thought I was doing pretty well. I don’t smoke or drink. I exercise a lot more now than I did a couple of years ago and I've been disciplined, sort of, on Weight Watchers. But when age 50 rapidly approaches, health is apparently a moving target. Just when you've got a good routine down, you get a little older and you have to do more.

What Does a Single, Gay, 50 Year Old Look Like?

So Michelle Obama has turned 48. It's kind of shocking to be older than the First Lady. I mean, Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan with their old lady hair seemed much more advanced in years. But the current occupants of the White House are practically peers. At this rate, in the next administration, I'll be complaining that the President and First Spouse are too young to have a clue about what they're doing and that in my day ...

You get the picture.

I have to admit that this last birthday rattled me. I'm now just one year away from the half-century mark. It's not that I'm afraid of death or being unattractive. I treasure each and every gray hair. It's more that I don’t know how I should act.

What does 50 look like? The image that first comes to mind is of active grandparents. But I'm not a grandparent, nor are there prospects for becoming one.

I sort through my mind's database of images for living as a nearly 50 year old single, childless, gay person: Eccentric uncle. Spinster aunt. Confirmed bachelor. Gay divorcee. Pathetic looser. Crazy cat lady. Hmm. The closest one that fits is crazy cat lady.

It's not about how I look to others, but rather how I see myself. There's a shortage of helpful role models for people of years, in general, let alone single ones. Add gay to the mix and, well, I might as well be the only one. 

The best older role model that comes to mind is Betty White. She's beloved, respected, active, funny, and she's 90. Doesn't help me much right now.

A role model for the unmarried, in my mind, is single gal Doris Day in the 1960's movie, Pillow Talk. She's strong, beautiful, busy with her career, and has a housekeeper. Of course, in spite of fiery independence, she settles down in the end with Rock Hudson. Needless to say, she's not old in the movie, and gay didn't exist on the screen then.

It's pretty gay that I use Pillow Talk as an example. It's pretty gay that I vividly remember Rock Hudson in the bathtub scene, but I digress.

I don't sit around and pine for a husband, like Sally Rogers on the Dick Van Dyke show (another fairly gay reference and dubious single role model), but neither do I commit eternally to my singleness, forever free from the bonds of husbandly attachment. I simply want to know how I'm supposed to act now that I'm approaching the AARP demographic.

This just in. Rosie O'Donnell, I'm observing as she talks to Piers Morgan, is exactly my age. She's gay. She's engaged, but single for now. She looks fabulous. Maybe I just need to look around a little more.