When I'm Sixty-Four

When you get to be my age, you start thinking about what it means to be old.

Today is my 34th birthday, and according to the overwhelming majority of people who have an opinion about this sort of thing, this means that I am definitely, decidedly in my mid 30s.

Their theory goes that while you are 30, 31, 32 and 33, you are in your early 30s. I presume that 37, 38 and 39 count as the late 30s, though we haven’t yet discussed those years, which would leave 34, 35 and 36 as the mid 30s. And I suppose that’s more than fair -- you actually get to be in your early 30s for four years, while the other two classifications need only be endured for three years apiece.

So by that definition, I’m now in my mid 30s. A more generous (and mathematically accurate) definition would keep your mid 30s to the 12 months between the day you turn 34 and a half and the day you turn 35 and a half, but that’s probably just splitting hairs. And I suppose no matter how you slice it, it’s better to have a mid 30s than to just parse your fourth decade on the planet into early 30s and late 30s, with 35 as your late-30s cutoff.

Of course, to many others who know me, this early-30s/mid-30s debate is mere foolishness, because whatever you call it, I’m old.

And this is why I should stop hanging out with college students and start spending more time in assisted-living facilities.

But really, what is old?

Well, Tuesday night I was prowling the aisles of my grocery store, stationed before the shelves perusing the Nutrition Facts. Ooh, that has too much cholesterol, better put it back. Oh, that bread has more fiber than this bread? I’ll get that one. Holy lord! Has this always had that much saturated fat?

Sure, I’m eating smart, and looking out for my health and whatnot, but when you take a step back from it, that’s pretty old.

But Wednesday night, after a sensible dinner, I had a craving for chocolate, so I went into the fridge and wolfed down six spoonfuls of chocolate-chip cookie dough.

That’s pretty young.

A couple weeks ago, I went to meet with my financial advisor. Having a financial advisor? That’s pretty old.

But when I walked in the door, sporting my new Pumas, my financial advisor looked at me and said, “Eric, those shoes are awesome. You’re so hip.”

Having shoes that make people say you’re hip? That’s pretty young.

Having your financial advisor tell you that you’re hip? That’s pretty old.

But the real question is this -- does the fact that I have these “hip” shoes mean that I’m young and hip, or just some old guy trying to act young?

Now, I’m fully comfortable being old school. I still have this t-shirt from when I was in high school that has a picture of Charles Barkley going up for a dunk, and behind Charles are big blue letters that read, “Basketball by Barkley.” This was from back when Nike still felt the need to put its name above the Swoosh, and whenever I wear this shirt, the college kids that I teach, coach and advise invariably say something to the effect of, “That shirt is sweet. Now that’s old school.” And they say this with a reverence in their voice, undoubtedly reflecting an appreciation for the fact that I have vivid memories of NBA basketball that pre-date the 1992 Dream Team.

But I was thinking about that t-shirt the other day, and thinking about the fact that I probably got it in 1984 or 1985, in Sir Charles’ first or second year in the league.

And then I was thinking about the fact that most current college freshmen were born in 1987. The older ones were born in 1986. Most seniors were born in 1984.

In other words, I have t-shirts older than most of these kids.

That’s pretty old.

But the reality of just how old I am was brought home to me the other day.

I was on the Facebook the other day looking up an email address for one of my students. If you’re not familiar with it, the Facebook is “an online directory that connects people through social networks at schools.” It’s like Friendster (or so I’ve been told), but for college students. Because I have a .edu email address, I can get on there.

The very fact that I’m on the Facebook -- something even most of my early-30s friends have never even heard of? Well, that’s pretty young.

And then I stumbled across a name I hadn’t heard or seen in years in a list of somebody’s friends. And I clicked on his profile, and realized rather quickly that I was looking at the profile of a kid who I first met in 1992, at Indian Springs Day Camp. When he was a thigh-high seven-year old. And I was his camp counselor.

He’s now a 20-year-old college junior.

That, my friends, is pretty old.