Single Male seeking SMW, 120 or Older, For Hot Times!

Barbara Walters in her ABC special last week, “Live to Be 150… Can You Do It?” has found one of the keys to looking young on television at 76. Surround yourself with people who are 90 and older and you look marvelous.

As Barbara interviewed one research doctor after another, she heard (to her great relief no doubt) that in the not too distant future the “eighty will be the new fifty.” Soon they were sharing with her their vision that we will all live to 150 and beyond.

Using the same math, I suppose in the year 2030 some bright-eyed mad scientist will proudly announce that 120 is the new 90.

Well I’ve seen 90, and with rare exceptions, it’s not a real pretty site.

All these researchers refer to aging as a “disease,” but none of them deal with the thorny issue of telling us when and where this “disease” begins. If we’re putting on the brakes in the aging process when we’re on the far side of 85, that’s not a fountain of youth from my perspective, that’s a fountain of age.

The hope of winter is the promise of spring. This is a winter without end. What about the idea that our lives are so precious because our time is limited? This 150 and beyond stuff really throws me for a loop. Now I realize that the Battlestar Gallactica nerds are all saying, “It’s the future man, think out of the box. Your hung up on some ideas from the eighties.”

Well I’m sorry, but I just can’t wrap my mind around a retirement that lasts 40 years.

If I live to 150 that means I get to attend my son’s 120th birthday party, my grandson’s 90th, not to mention “junior’s,” big day, my great grandson’s 60th. Probably the people behind this bit of bioengineering are the pharmaceutical companies. Imagine blood pressure medication that you sell to the same patient for 75 years. And drugs for sexual dysfunction should really clean up. I can just hear some geezer (maybe me) in 2091 telling his pals, “I’ve been on Viagra for forty years now. I was cold steel up to 90, but after that I needed a little help.”

When my dear dad was in his final few weeks, just shy of 77, a respectable number of years, I sat at his bedside and held his hand as he slept, and the words of Groucho Marx as Captain Spalding, the African explorer, of the comedy classic Animal Crackers, kept repeating in my mind. “Oh please won’t you stay,” boomed the voice of his hostess, the ever present grand dame, Margaret Dumont. Groucho gave a quick flicker of his eyebrows, and flashed his mischievous smile and said, “I’ll stay a week or two, I’ll stay the summer through, but I am telling you, I must be going.”

And as I sat there and thought of my great friend leaving this life, it occurred to me that perhaps in the best sense life is a party. In spite of the pain, hurt, and occasional disappointments, it’s hopefully one terrific party. You can stay a week or two, and perhaps the whole summer through, but before too long we all must be going.”

Life, like any great party, is fun as long as the food is hot and the drinks are cold. When that stops, perhaps it might be time to call it a night, and go home.