I recently saw an article in which people were enumerating things that they were too old for, which struck me funny, because a million years ago our complaint was that we were too young (to drive, to drink, to swear, etc.).

But yes, there are things that we just don’t want to do anymore. The article listed such things as arguing with stupid people (waste of time) and hangovers (recovery period too long).

What’s on your list? Mine starts with concerts with no seating. You have to stand the whole time?  Nah!

You’re stuck in a concert crowd that wants to sing along with EVERY song? Especially the couple right behind you.

Shoes that aren’t comfortable? With only so much time left on earth, why should your feet hurt?

Other people’s opinion of me? I want to care but at our age, what’s the use? We can’t change even if we wanted to.

Guilty pleasures? Bring ‘em on! Too late for you to overdose on Cheetos and what’s wrong with a piece of chocolate now and then (make that twice a day)?

Keeping up with popular culture? Time wasted. Have no idea who the latest movie stars are and I’m not feeling left out or inferior about it.

Risking life and limb? No, no, and more no. I’m sure skydiving is thrilling but not for me.

Conflict. Don’t need it, don’t want it. Life is short. Well, shorter for boomers anyway, so who needs any more agro?

Denying that I like what I like. That’s a big one. Why should any of us waste our time being defensive about the choices we make and the pleasures we pursue (unless it’s illegal)? You like to read only murder mysteries? Good on you. It’s your time and it’s ridiculous for it to be labeled a guilty pleasure. There can be no guilt for how you want to spend your time (and I’ll say it again, unless it’s illegal).

Emojis. I know, I know. You may think they are cute and sure, they communicate emotion with impressive brevity, but I just can’t get through a text or an email that’s filled with them. We’re adults, so let’s act like it.

Maybe we’re too old to be making lists of things we’re too old to be doing –— oops, too late.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

Why do I talk to myself so much? While in grade school, I overheard a self-proclaimed neighborhood savant say that people talk to themselves because they either have money in the bank, or they’re nuts. I took that proclamation as fact, and since I was still in my formative years, that fact stuck for years.

I began talking to myself in my teens. That old saying about why people talk to themselves lingered and left me uneasy even though I had no money in the bank and did not behave like a nut. To overcome the feeling, I talked myself into believing that talking to myself now merely predicted that I’d one day have money in the bank, so I wasn’t nuts after all. I worked and saved into middle-age before I had enough in the bank to tell myself I was okay. In fact, successful internet investments enabled me to graduate from muttering to talking out loud.

By then, everything mankind knew had been uploaded to the internet. I trusted the internet because social media said I could, and you know how smart those social media billionaires are. After a lifetime of uncertainty, I felt I could finally learn the answer to the questions that nearly drove me nuts for years:

Why do people talk to themselves? How often must you talk to yourself for it to qualify and prove you’re not nuts?

Does anyone have to hear you for it to qualify? If you talk to yourself in a foreign language, must you be fluent in that language or can you speak gibberish? If an artificial intelligence application tells you you’re nuts, are you nuts only if you believe in AI?

I yearn for the halcyon days before the introduction of the personal computer or its bastard children, the internet and artificial intelligence. In those days, to learn the definition or proper spelling of words such as halcyon, one had to refer to a dictionary and look it up. Trying to find words I didn’t know how to spell drove me nuts. How do you do that?

While using artificial intelligence to search for answers to my questions, AI told me that talking to yourself may also be a sign of success. If you believe that, only the AI app developers succeeded and you’re probably nuts. And you can take that to the bank.

Bob Aubin lives in Franklin, MA and is a septuagenarian baby boomer learning how to do this for the first time.

 

Here I am, sitting patiently, waiting for the “word.” Many people have been asking me what my new year’s resolutions are. I patiently explain that I don’t know. I am awaiting my wife’s and daughters’ decisions on what they should be.

I thought that I had free will but I now believe that is in the past tense. I am north of seventy years old and apparently not capable of making goals for myself. I thought that I had been doing well over the years.

There was that year I resolved to gain weight. And I did, in spades.

When I was 69 my resolution was to live until I was 70. Mission accomplished.

Another year I resolved to have heart surgery. I didn’t think I was going to pull that one off. But then on December ninth I managed to sneak in an artificial heart valve.

In my forties, one January first had me resolving to make sure we had no bears in the back yard that year. Again, successful.

There was the year that I resolved to start a new fashion fad. Unfortunately, the wearing of the V-neck sweater backwards didn’t catch on. I still don’t understand since the wearing of baseball hats backwards did catch on.

Many years I would take the concept seriously. I would start about December 15th trying to make a list. Ideas would come. Objections would arise. A lack of real interest would seep in. Egotism was rampart. I felt that I was an awesome guy the way I was.
I did smoke from the age of eighteen till I was thirty-six. Several years in twenties my new years resolution was to stop smoking. And I did. That is until about 2:15 p.m., January 1st.

So now I await the wise ones’ dictums. I know that loosing weight will be there. Not snoring usually comes from the wife. Spending more time with my grandchildren will be forced upon me by two daughters and a son. Figuring out how to use my iPhone might show up.

I do realize that left to my own devices, the resolutions would be to increase my afternoon naps by 50 per cent, to move the word “dessert” to its plural form, to order a second remote so I can flip channels with both hands. As you can see these are the really important things in life.

Check with me on December 31st to see if I have anything to report.

Kenan Bresnan lives on H Street but he didn’t say where

One of the biggest bones of contention between Boomers and Millennials is the use of acronyms and emojis, particularly as they have proliferated in the workplace. Millennials love to use them, and boomers flat out hate them. One must admit (or not) that the assumption that everyone will know what your shorthand or emoji means is just plain cocky – besides being out of place in a professional environment.

That brings us to the increased use of shorthand on TikTok and X (formerly Twitter). The shorthand continues to leak over into workplace communication. DW, for example, means “don’t worry.” Relax. Everything is OK unless you haven’t the foggiest idea of what DW means. (On a sidenote, OK or okay is from the 1880s and is supposedly an intentional misspelling of oll korrect. Who knew? Shorthand has been around for a long time.)

Next, we have ICYMI. This one is most likely directed at clueless boomers on various occasions, because it means “in case you missed it.” Of course we missed it! You insist on using shorthand!

HMU? That stands for “hit me up.” That is, call me. That could be irritating enough that you would rather just slug them.

“AFK” is short for away from keyboard. Really? Really! And we need to know this why? A little too much self-importance. Next thing you know, they will be “ITB” –– in the bathroom.

“TBH.” “To be honest.” Yes, honesty would be appreciated but isn’t it superfluous to tell us you are a professional and not prone to lie when communicating with your coworkers.

Then there’s “SMH” –– “shaking my head.” Most likely a millennial is using it when frustrated that Boomers don’t understand all this shorthand.

Here’s another time waster. “WYD.” What (are) you doing? Sitting at your desk looking up shorthand slang terminology – DUH!

I would like to think that the use of shorthand will taper off one day, eventually, maybe, but sadly I know it will most likely proliferate to the point when I don’t understand half the communication I receive via email or in texts.

No worries. I’ll get ChatGBT to translate everything for me.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

In my childhood home, it was hard to be acknowledged as something special. Bringing home test papers marked “100%” or showing off a teacher’s delighted scribble of “A+++” on an English composition elicited, “Well, naturally. You’re my child.” And a quick change of subject.

I yearned for a distinctive talent, one that would truly impress my parents.

Every year Dad and I watched The Miss America contest together. He repeatedly declared, “You were the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen. Why didn’t we enter you into a beautiful baby contest?” He promised I could be in the Miss America contest when I got older.

In the middle of this fantasy, he appeared flummoxed. “You’ve got to have a talent.”

I couldn’t play an instrument. My teacher was pretty sure I was tone deaf.

My father could draw clever cartoons and comics but my idea of art was a square house with four windows, a chimney belching smoke, a sun in the sky, a flower growing near the path to the house. Essentially, a vision unchanged since first grade. So, not Art.

“I’ll recite a poem I’ve written or sing a song?” Dad winced. He’d already voiced his opinion of my writing when I read him my comic western, Wild Dill Pickle Rides Again.”

“Look,” he’d said, “You’re not a real writer. A real writer gets up at 4 a.m. and writes every day. A real writer watches no TV. A real writer—” I got the idea.

Nevertheless, we continued to watch Miss America together though I was sick of hearing how I failed to measure up. One day Dad had a brainstorm. “Tuck your hair behind your ears and follow my lead.”
“They’re moving,” he whispered. “Hey kids,” he called out to my brothers. “Get in here. Bring your mother!”

With my family gathered round, I practiced in the mirror. My ears danced! And no one else in the family— outside of Dad—had inherited this particular talent. We had found my talent!

For the rest of my childhood I watched in vain for a Miss America candidate to demonstrate my aural dexterity. Ha! No way would I wiggle my ears on TV.

And by the way, I eventually discovered I was a real writer all along. Thanks, Dad (for that stubborn gene in your DNA).

Janet Garber may still be able to wiggle her ears

Remember that song…Wild Thing! You make my heart sing? As we get older that pulse gets tempered. When you’ve ‘been there’ and ‘done that’ for over a long period of time. There aren’t too many ‘wild things’ left to explore or enjoy. Not quite like the initial, youthful discoveries of another. As Italians would say, ‘come prima’…at first.

But what about now, as we age? It just means going quieter, less full blast. Subtle, with more space for silence and absorption of the moment, in the moment. Doesn’t mean any of the past pheromone charged enthusiasm is discounted or disparaged. It’s about accepting that we’re mostly past it. ‘Speak for yourself,’ you might be saying. Okay. I guess that’s all we can ever speak for…our own experience and insight. but hear me out on these couple of thoughts.

Of course, it’s imperative to keep up enthusiasm, pursue new possibilities, keep active and engaged. Still, there is an awful lot of comedy in plays and movies, if not teasing among peers, based on old-guys trying to stretch their salad days past the sell-by date. We must know when to turn down the volume, to go for subtle, slower, more appreciative, with gentle and realistic allowances for the ravages of age and gravity. For example, we must move past the Sports Illustrated cover as the ultimate in female charm and look to personality and caring; mutual comfort and companionship (despite SI throwing a bone to us old dogs by including a spread on Martha Steward…as if! Allow us all to give it a rest!)

Have you ever remarked how toddlers can engage in parallel play and even branch out to playing together? From a distance it’s not always easy to distinguish boys from girls with the gender-neutral clothes and haircuts…they’re just little people doing things together, oblivious to role expectations, not yet partners in the mating dance going on all around them. And sometimes they can play ‘house’ trying on roles, playing ‘grownups.’

Perhaps at the other end of the age spectrum we ‘oldsters’ can give ourselves permission to play ‘youngsters’ and let ourselves simply enjoy one another without all the internal combustion noise and exhaust of the child-bearing years. Like in the story of the elderly couple sharing a gentle kiss. After a pause, the wife asks, “What was that other thing we used to do?”

Ha!…just sayin’.

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. In, Pinata Belly, and other tales of later love, Novara reminds of the limits and ultimate hope for online dating sites.