Oh, to be middle-aged again. (Elder hostile much?)

Today is my half-birthday. Which makes me 68.5.

I’m an elder. An older person. A senior. A senior citizen. An old geezer. (Or is it geezeress?)

There’s no denying that there are some benefits. Medicare’s great. So’s the half-price Senior T-Pass that lets me ride the commuter rails, buses, and rapid transit for short money. Discounts – movies, museums, Friendly’s: all good.

Still, it’s tough to think of yourself as, well, old. Which is why most baby boomers don’t. The first wave of boomers turned 70 last year. And you know what I read? Boomers define old age as starting at 73. I suspect that, in a couple of years, that number will have been extended by a couple of years.

Some people say that “age is just a number.” But that, as us golden agers know, is bull-sheeetttt. The reality is that, if you’re old and plan on getting older, you’re old and getting older. Things fall apart. The center cannot hold. You sag and bag. You don’t bounce back as quickly from slings and arrows, healthwise. You get crepey skin. People die on you. And it’s no longer “just” your parents. It’s spouses. It’s sibs. It’s friends. Sure, there’s something attitudinal about being old. But, let’s face it, age isn’t just a number. It’s an actual number. And numbers in real life don’t end with infinity.

Nonetheless, I don’t consider 68.5 old. Or elder. Or senior (except where it comes to the senior discount). But by some standards, I’ve been old/oldish for a while.

My husband could recall with absolute clarity where and when he was first called “Sir”. (Textbook section of the Harvard Coop. He was in his mid-twenties and was “sirred” by a clerk.) I don’t recall my first “ma’am-ing.” But I do recall shrieking when, at age 49, I read an article in the paper in which the victim of a fire was characterized as an “elderly woman.” She was 47.

And when I took the first survey in which I had to lump myself into the 64 and older category, I gulped.

Apparently it’s not just us old folks who are sensitive about what we’re called. Middle-aged people – a cohort (40-65) that I’ve barely grown out of and, in truth, still consider myself a member of – are bristling at being called middle-aged. They’re even considering rebranding themselves.

…a 52-year-old Maryland woman, Lisa Nagel, is suggesting “mid-century modern.” It’s an idea born of disappointment with the term “middle aged” (it’s an “anchor”) and appreciation for the current decorating craze. (Source: Boston Globe)

Another suggestion is “’perrenial’ because it’s ‘vibrant, everlasting, and forward thinking.’”

Okay. I’ll give them 2 out of 3. They get credit for vibrant and forward thinking. But everlasting? Where’ve they been, sitting around their mid-century modern houses congratulating themselves on their sense of style and good bones? Are they out of their everlasting minds???

WGBH Radio host Henry Santoro wants to eliminate the middleman, errrrr, middle age, and make things binary:

“You’re either young or you’re old,” he said. (This is definitely appealing, but imagine the war that would be waged over where to draw that line.)

I kind of like this one, but it’s all relative, situational. When I’m at the Sunday matinee of an Actors Shakespeare Project, I’m the breath of spring. When I’m meeting with clients – most of them in their 30’s or early 40’s (max) – I’m old, even if they don’t realize just how old old is. (Unless they read today’s post, that is…)

Maybe the thing to do is forget about generational catchalls. Maybe we should go for more precision. I’m in my sixties. Or I’m (alas) in my late sixties.

And all I can say to those decrying their being labeled as middle age is a quote from 74-year-old Joni Mitchell:

Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

Yesterday’s middle-age is tomorrow’s old person.