Reflections on a boomer milestone

People have been talking about me and writing about me my whole life.

Let me explain. I’m a baby boomer, but more than that, I’m pretty much “the” baby boomer. There’s been a lot of discussion already about the first of the baby boom generation, those born in January 1946, turning 65 this month, and what that means for the nation.

Well, that’s me. This is my birth month and 1946 is my birth year. As a matter of fact, I made my appearance in the first few days of the month, so I am at the very leading edge of my generation. Yes, I know, whoopee for me. Now I realize it’s not me specifically that’s garnering all this attention, but my generation, and particularly those of us who got it all started. So I repeat, that’s me.

As self-indulgent and egotistic as this appears, it’s perfectly normal for me for all this attention to be paid to what’s happening in my life – from being born to entering school, graduating from high school and college, entering the job market, marrying, having babies – all of it. It seems quite proper for these milestones to be paid attention to because, well, they always have been.

It only struck me recently how weird this is. I mean, other generations only get passing note. But let us boomers burp en masse or do something significant in any kind of numbers – like retire, for example – whoa, there’s a media storm. I suspect there’s got to be some resentment out there toward my people, as we do tend to devour the limelight.

At the moment we kind of run things in the country, except maybe for Facebook. And as a group we’re pretty darn proud of ourselves, even though what we are about to cost the nation may indeed break its back. We’ve kind of messed up along the way here and there. But never mind that. We are the boomers, after all. We have the strength of numbers, so we’re entitled.

From my kind of unique viewpoint at the head of a long, long line (there are 78 million of us boomers, born from 1946 through 1964), I’ve been reflecting on my boomerhood, and some random thoughts are emerging.

I realize I am now an officially, government-certified old person. I could call myself mature or aging or a woman of advanced glamour or whatever I wished before this month, but now the call is no longer my own. It’s undeniable. I’m legally old because …

… I’m on Medicare. Good lord! I really am old. Medicare – I mean that’s not something for … oh wait, yes it is. I’ve got my card and am now updating records at my doctors’ offices. I mean, I’m glad to have it – and we’ll see how it fares in Congress in the coming years – but it really does put a bit of mental cement in my dancing shoes.

Who is that woman in the mirror? I’ve had graying hair for some time now. The skin isn’t as elastic as it used to be. An occasional afternoon nap is to be savored. The stamina isn’t what it was. It’s been gradual. But sometimes in the morning, I am startled by the face looking back at me from the bathroom mirror. How did my grandmother get in there?

Sixty-five is not one-size-fits-all. Some claim it’s the new 56 because we’re living longer, hip-replacement surgery lets us move better, nutrition and exercise push back aging and all that. My friend Connie, just a month or two older than me, is a physical phenomenon. She can work on her knees in her hot Florida rose garden all day. I cannot kneel. Period.

I laugh more at myself. I’m tempted to say it’s either laugh or cry, but that’s not it. I laugh because more things strike me funny. Watch my facial contortions as I try to thread a needle without my reading glasses on. It should make you giggle; it does me.

A year ago I declared 2010 would be the year of the curmudgeon for me. I would let my inner Andy Rooney find voice. I suspect that will still surface from time to time (grammatical sins cannot go unpunished or unpublished forever, for example). But I feel another little thought seeking voice now – and since today is officially Make Your Dreams Come True Day, I believe I shall follow that stream of diminishing consciousness to wherever it might lead.

So many people are writing so insightfully about boomers at 65, and I won’t try to duplicate their eloquence, if I even could. But they are mostly outside observers. I think 2011 might be my year of living boomerously – that is, sharing occasional dispatches from the front lines of boomerland, and from a perspective near the very front of that line. OK, and maybe a little ranting about it, too.

We’ll see how that goes.