I Am 64
(To the tune of Sir Paul McCartney’s “When I’m Sixty-four”)
Here I am older, grey in my hair
Full of fears for now,
Will they still be sending me a Valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine
If I come in at quarter to three
Will they op’n the door
Do they still need me, how will I feed me
Now that I’m sixty-four
Younger yes are you
But I can do the work
And at half price too
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
I can write your speeches on the side
Sunday mornings go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more
Will they still need me, how will I feed me
Now I’m sixty-four . . .
When Sir Paul wrote his song at the ripe old age of fifteen and even when the Beatles recorded it for Sgt. Pepper’s, they could not have possibly known the heart-draining anxiety of growing old and becoming, to some eyes, useless. The desolate emptiness of unoccupied retirement. Worrying about when the money runs out.
I’ve been lucky to have friends and former colleagues who value my counsel, to have been able to set aside a small kitty of cash, and to remain married to a rich and loving wife whose name we dare not speak. Seriously, I’m ok. Every now and then, however, and especially on my birthday, I wonder about that time when my expertise is so obsolete that I can’t get a consultancy gig even at half my price, when my savings have been depleted, when even the love of my life has left me. How will I feed me?
More than the lack of financial wherewithal, it’s the loss of esteem from the people around that feels terminally deflating. It starts with little things. Not being given an ID card that magically opens office turnstiles and glass doors with a single tap. The barista no longer knowing your name. An e-vite that says your presence is optional rather than required. Then, the daggers to the heart might dig deeper. Getting summoned to a meeting by a newbie who didn’t bother to Google your Linked In. You believing you know the answer—you know exactly what to do—but they ignore you. They simply stop calling. Do they still need me?
McCartney was only having a bit of fun. He couldn’t have foreseen his separating from his wife shortly before he turned sixty-four. He probably didn’t even think he’d live so long. I know I never thought I’d make it past forty or fifty. Now I’m sixty-four. The profound depression that comes with age is real. The future no longer holds any promise. The days are boring, and the nights are long and filled with interruptions (to go to the bathroom).
We carry on, however, as best we can.
Here I am in Spain, heading for San Sebastián for a pintxos bar crawl.
###
Comments