I Just Can’t Wait to Get Old – And Neither Should You

Some might say that a wasted youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age--but I couldn’t disagree more.
elderly, old, old people, scooter, rascal, aging, fun

Some might say that a wasted youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age (and those people would be Meat Loaf), but I couldn’t disagree more. The “Millennial” label is a big, fat scarlet letter, one that leaves its wearer vulnerable to a never-ending gauntlet of ridicule and blame. Baby boomers and Gen X-ers love to say we Millennials don’t know how good we’ve got it—yeah, compared to starving children in Aleppo (while we’re on the subject, real cracker jack response from the grownups of the world on that one). And sure, a certain subset of America’s youth will bitch about inconsequential issues at the drop of a hat, but the overwhelming majority of us just want a chance to fuck up the world instead of having it demolished for us. That’s why I envy the so-called “Greatest Generation,” comprised of our grandparents; they were brave enough to take up arms to defend Lady Liberty, only to turn around and hobble her with a ball peen hammer. You wanna know what real power looks like? How ‘bout a standing ovation for shitting yourself at the hair salon, or a parade just for waking up and remembering to breathe? That, my friends, is the kind of unlimited power that no amount of money can buy because it’s backed by the most elusive of currencies: blind respect. I can’t fucking wait to get old and coast my way into the dirt—and here’s why.

Comfy Time All the Time

After decades of treating your body to a carnival of junk food, gin and sex juices, the chickens will inevitably come home to roost. Slowly but surely, your bones begin to creak, your skin takes on the characteristics of soggy paper, and a network of varicose veins works its way from asshole to ankles. Yeah, the ravages of time sound uncomfortable, but have you ever tried on an old person’s custom orthotic slipper? It’s like sticking your foot in a chubby angel’s muff. No matter how “sad” or “demeaning” a product appears to be, I guarantee it’s one hundred times as ballin’. Ever cringe when Nana gets copper compression socks for Christmas? Well, she’s posted up in a triple stuffed recliner, hammering deviled eggs with salt while her fucking socks do all the work of making sure blood keeps circulating through her willowy body. And don’t even get me started on the electric mobility scooter. We’re all walking around like a bunch of plebs while the geriatrics glide from Early Bird Special to Early Bird Special like brittle little conquistadors.

You Can (Probably) Get Away with Murder

All our lives, we’re told to “respect our elders.” When I was in the second grade, my class was walking back to campus after a field trip. Along the way, we encountered a toothless, morbidly obese old woman sitting on her stoop—sunning every naked inch of her pancake-batter-in-a-pillowcase body. There she sat, going to town on herself like a blind man plucking a waterlogged banjo. Too young to properly contextualize this casual display of public indecency, we screamed—and that’s when the chaperones read us the fucking riot act for “shaming” She Who Was Clearly Without Shame. Therein lies the sneaky brilliance of aging: people will either assume you’re a plucky survivor whose will to live deserves a tip of the cap, or a dangerously demented old whore who’ll whip a handful of Dinty Moore shits at you without warning. Either way, old codgers get a wide berth and the benefit of the doubt, making them nigh untouchable. Does this serve to blur the line between “respect” and “fear?” Sure. Do you think that matters to the elderly? Go ask your ninety-year-old neighbor when he’s finished hunting the mailman with a dart gun.

Say Bye-Bye to the Pressure to Perform

I feel comfortable speaking for my Millennials when I say that the alternating pressure to hook up and settle down is a schizophrenic steamboat captain that ends up steering every decision you make. Even when you go out with no intentions of getting laid, your hormones scream, “JESUS, TAKE THE WHEEL” and you start doing and saying things you’d never imagined just for a 35% chance of a quickie dry hump session out back of the Outback Steakhouse. See, the elderly don’t suffer this dilemma because their sex drives caved in on themselves decades ago. Gone is the instinct to be full of shit and feign interest in nonsense just to get a potential mate’s juices flowing. And lest you think this is a tragic all or nothing scenario, consider the following: with the social and biological urge to merge hanging over our heads, few things rival the shame of whiskey dick—or for the ladies, vodka vagina. When the big show comes and you’re left shooting pool with a rope or packing a bona fide cotton twat, your options are limited. Do you pull a MacGyver and whip up a popsicle stick splint, or buy yourself some time with a well placed thumb? Maybe you call an audible and go down on your partner until your tongue cramps up and your jaw clamps shut. Or, if you’re old as shit and the cable’s out, maybe you close the blinds, take the phone off the hook and pop a little magic pill–and the irony is, you’d probably be a better lover than the eighty percent of the populace who doesn’t work in the sex trade. See, these are the things AARP conveniently leaves out of its literature time and time again.


Your temper brings dishonor to my Happy Mu Shu Palace.
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