At 79, Joe Biden is the oldest president in U.S. history. Concerns about his age top the list of why Democratic voters want the party to find an alternative for 2024.
I don’t think this reflects so much an “old” prejudice against those who have reached such dizzying heights, but the understanding that people in the late 70s and 80s are marked.
I speak with some authority. I am now 76 years old, light years younger than our president. I feel fit, I do swing ball and salsa, and I can do 20 push-ups in a row. However, I confess to a certain loss of, say, fizz.
Joe Biden could easily get to 86, when he would conclude his second term. After all, it is now thought a little disappointing if a person dies before the age of 85. Three twenty-ten is the useful life established by the Bible. Modern technology and great pharmaceuticals add up to at least a decade and a half. “After the 80s, it’s sauce,” my father used to say.
Joe will be at the top of the salsa train.
Where will it end? There is only one possibility. I find myself reading the pages of obituaries with increasing interest, pointing to “Older Than Me” or “Younger Than Me”.
Most of the time I forget my age. The other day, after lunch with some of my graduate students, I caught our reflection in a storefront and for a moment wondered about the identity of the old bass among us.
It is not death that worries Biden’s second term. They are the decrease in abilities that go with aging.
When I meet old friends, our first ritual is an “organ recital”: how are you on your back? color? hip? sight? to listen? prostate? hemorrhoids? The recital can run (and ruin) an entire lunch.
The question my friends and I jokingly (and brutally) asked ourselves in college: “get a lot?”, Now it’s not about sex but about sleeping. I don’t know anyone over 75 who sleeps through the night.
When he was president, Bill Clinton is proud to have only about four hours. But then he was forty. (I also remember the cabinet meetings where he fell asleep.) How is Biden managed?
My memory of the names is horrible. I once asked Ted Kennedy how he remembered the names and he advised me that if a man is over 50, he would just ask me “how’s your back?” and he will think you know him.
I often don’t remember where I put my wallet and keys. Some proper names have disappeared altogether. Even when they are rediscovered, they have a diabolical way of disappearing again.
Biden’s secret service detail may worry about his wallet, and he has a teleprompter for whimsical nouns, but I’m sure he’s experiencing some decline in the memory department.
I no longer feel a great enthusiasm for traveling and, like Philip Larkin, I would like to visit China on the condition that I can return home that night. Air Force One makes this possible in most circumstances. It also has a first class bedroom and bathroom, so I don’t expect Biden’s travels to be too imposing.
I’m told that after age 60, one loses half an inch in height every five years. This doesn’t seem like a problem for Biden, but it poses a challenge to me, considering I didn’t reach five feet at my apex. If I live as long as my father, he could disappear.
Another decrease I have noticed is the touch. I recently gave my finger to a driver who passed me recklessly. Today, pointing the finger at a stranger is in itself a reckless act.
I’m also noticing less patience, perhaps due to an unconscious “use by” timer now shutting down. I’m less tolerant of long queues, automated phone menus, and Republicans.
How the hell does Biden keep his tact or patience when he has to deal with Joe Manchin?
The style sections of the papers tell us that the 70s are the new 50s. The septuagenarians are supposed to be fit and alert, exercise like crazy, have roaring sex, and party until dawn.
Garbage. Inevitably, things start to break down. My aunt, who lived to the age of ninety, told me that “aging is not for ladybugs.” Towards the end he repeated that phrase every two or three minutes.
I remain optimistic, despite the seditious Republican Party, the ravages of climate change, near-record inequality, a possible nuclear war and a stubborn pandemic, in large part because I still spend most days with people in their twenties, the effervescence of which he encourages me. Maybe Biden does too.
But I feel more and more out of it. I’m making videos on TikTok and Snapchat, but when my students refer to Ariana Grande or Selena Gomez or Jared Leto, I have no idea who they’re talking about (and frankly I don’t care).
And I find myself using words: “therefore,” “maximum,” “therefore,” “tony,” “brilliant” —that my younger colleagues find charmingly old-fashioned. If I’m referring to “Rose Marie Woods” or “Jackie Robinson” or “Ed Sullivan” or “Mary Jo Kopechne,” they’re baffled.
Culture has changed in many ways. When he was 17, he could walk into a pharmacy and confidently order a packet of Luckies and whisper nervously an application for condoms. Now it’s just the other way around. (I quit smoking a long time ago.)
Santayana said older people have premonitions about the future because they cannot imagine a world that is good without themselves. I do not share this view. On the contrary, I think my generation, including Bill and Hillary, George W., Trump, Newt Gingrich, Clarence Thomas, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, and Biden, have fucked it up in a real way. The world will probably be better without us.
Joe, please don’t run.