When did my cardiologist become younger than me? For that matter, how is it I even need a cardiologist? I now take these little pale, yellow pills for cholesterol. I have parents who take pills for cholesterol. I shouldn't be taking pills for cholesterol. And these so-called answers to my cholesterol are no larger than the size of a pinhead. What can that honestly do for me? My heart is much larger than that.
Just this past week while watching the NCAA's March Madness with my husband, the announcer, who no doubt was much younger than me, was providing historical data about a college basketball team who had just upset a number one seed. Apparently this team hadn't been to the NCAA tournament in over forty years. Wow, that's like a lifetime ago, at least for the players and, it hurts me to admit, most of the broadcasters. That statistic was soon followed with, "and that was in the 80's". Wait, what? That's not a lifetime ago. That's like, yesterday.
How did I get to be on the eve of my 64th birthday, older than every type of professional athlete that I once aspired to be, not to mention the sportscasters who were once those athletes that they are now broadcasting about. When did a night out become less desirable than a evening of Netflix on the sofa? And when did the tunes on the radio become more noise than music? I am now that person and share my life with a retired, Medicare-aged spouse and qualify for Social Security. Back in the 80's we just had to memorize our Social Security number as a form of identity, never contemplating it as a source of income.
When did I become that person who religiously reads the obituaries every morning before tackling the real news on the front of the Style section? It was my mother who always shared the tragedy of someone's death. I am now that person, feeling a sense of satisfaction that I am in the know before a phone call or a text is received relaying the same. And what respected newscaster could honestly deliver someone's demise at the age of sixty to be from 'natural causes'? There are no natural causes at sixty. Dig deeper, man. We just promoted sixty as the new forty! Natural causes my ass...
Just recently, while visiting our daughter and son-in-law in Brooklyn, my youngest son accompanied me to a local dispensary to obtain cannabis. Just that sentence alone is an age-defining reflection of our times. The fact I went with my son to purchase marijuana in and of itself is like leaving earth to live with the Jetsons. It's unfathomable, and yet, here we were.
Back in the 80's, when marijuana was cooly referred to as grass, weed, reefer, or joint, no parent was accompanying their kids to purchase it. It was a back alley, clandestine acquisition. And when did we start referring to marijuana as 'cannabis'? Is 'marijuana' too old school? And when did purchasing marijuana, aka, cannabis, become a science tutorial?
Once we were authorized to enter the shop, I was questioned by a twenty-year old from behind the counter asking me how she could be of assistance. This was NOT your mother's marijuana purchase that's for sure. The place was spotless. The display cases were organized by product type and potency. Each countertop had several magnifying scopes available for the customer to confirm the anatomy of the products. What? I was so far out of my element. In my day, aka, back in the eighties, you paid $5 for a nickel bag and went on your way.
When did marijuana become use-specific? As far back as I can recall, maybe the 80's (ha, ha), marijuana was just 'weed' and there was only one reason to buy it, to get 'stoned'. Do kids today even say 'stoned'. My cute, little twenty-something clerk might as well have been speaking a foreign language when she asked if I preferred more Stativa or Indica. Indica, she went on to explain, has more THC, the substance in the cannabis plant that is associated with psychoactive effects, known to have a more relaxing impact, while Stativa tends to be less potent and thus more energizing. Being in no position to google anything she said without being caught and embarrassed for it, I just nodded as if I was contemplating between the two. I can assure you, I was not.
My only thought was, when did we ever smoke weed to get energized? I didn't even know there was such an option. And, truly, why would there be? George Carlin would be turning over in his grave with the death, from natural causes, of course, of the idea of getting stoned for stoned sake.
"What are you looking to treat," asked my now less than cute twenty-something salesclerk, "any physical pain, anxiety, depression, or stress?" "Yes," I said, without reservation, and said no more.
When did I stop being cool? I wanted to tell her and my son that back in our day we rolled our own 'joints' and took pride in it. That in our day, we bought weed when it was illegal. How cool is that? I wanted them to know that I wasn't some inexperienced newbie that they could roll their eyes at. That well before they were born, we use to separate our marijuana buds from the seeds using an album cover where the seeds were trapped in the middle seam of the cover. Oh god, they don't even know from album covers.
I was once as cool as I ever was. Is it weird that I felt a sense of relief and pride from my son as he took command over procuring my cannabis?
As I contemplate my life's journey, I can accept the aging process if it means that I can watch our children grow and become the people they are destined to be. I can accept that their world and their realities belong to them just as mine belong to me. I can even accept that my beloved album covers are now relics of bygone days. That the the music of today speaks to my children just as Meatloaf and Billy Joel spoke to me.
I may not be current with the language of today's generation and might have confused the acronym, 'LOL' for 'lots of love' rather than 'laugh out loud'. I'm still unsure of whether people tweet or twit but I know enough to know that I do neither. And there was that time when I struggled taking a selfie. Who knew to turn the camera around by pushing an icon rather than physically flipping the phone around. But those are just learning curves and growing pangs of the generational equation because at sixty-four I can still best my kids in a two-out-of three tennis match, bust a move on the dance floor and even on table-top when solicited to music of Taylor Swift or Beyonce, and even savor a premium cigar while strolling the streets of New York City.
And tonight I am with my family, our three kids and their significant others, at Madison Square Garden experiencing Billy Joel and our Indica purchase all the while taking selfies for our shared family album. How cool is that?
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