As a man of a certain age, I have chosen to lean into my peak years as a GOM, taking advantage of my position while I can
I’m still trying to decide who I want to be when I grow up.
I’ve been a “grumpy old man” since I was eight or nine. Frustrated with the incompetence of adults, irritated by the gross inequities of life, disgusted by the sheer nonsense of it all. The third grade was tough, and as it turned out, the rest of it wouldn’t get much better. I keep thinking there’s a role out there for me somewhere, and that one day I might discover what that is. I’m still looking and hoping.
I was a precocious child, eager to escape the relative confines of youth, only to discover the ineptitude and ignorance of the people alleged to be in charge. I leaped from the frying pan straight into the fire. Trading a lack of responsibility for a lack of control. It’s proven to be even worse than I ever imagined. I thought it was just the adults I got stuck with. I didn’t realize it was almost all of them. I joined a club I had no intention of being a part of. I was, essentially, duped. I’m still a little angry about it, if you must know.
At the prosaic age of 55, I’m not exactly what most people these days would consider old, but definitely smack dab in the middle of getting there. Middle-aged, they call it. When I was a kid, middle-aged was what we called old people when we were being kind. Old couples shuffling along, playing Bridge, eating dinner at 4:30 pm.
We said they were middle-aged because Old Farts was too disrespectful. Elderly was too frail. Ancient was just mean. Middle-aged people played tennis and took cruises. You visited old people in homes, homes no one wanted to be in.
My mother is 80 now. By any traditional measure, she’s old, except she’s really not. I’ve seen old, and she’s not old. She paints, sculpts, gardens, and moves the furniture around her house when she gets bored. She just cut a tree down in the backyard and got a new dog. Old is the people who sit drooling in front of their television sets, blasting Fox News at hearing impaired levels, complaining about the jello and the cold.
But at 80, if she’s not old, who is?
I have a theory.
Fifty-five is the prime age for Grumpy Old Men. I had been thinking I was not really old enough to be a GOM. I have been picturing an old man with a long gray beard and strong opinions, shouting at the wind, telling the kids to pipe down, and warning everyone to get off his lawn — oh wait, that is me.
They made a movie in 1993 called “Grumpy Old Men” starring Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau (the original grumpy old man), and Sophia Loren. They were 68, 73, and 59. The legendary Carroll O’Connor was only 47 when he first started playing the character Archie Bunker in the hit series “All In The Family.” If Matthau was grumpy, O’Connor was downright irate. “The Golden Girls” were supposed to be 53, 54, 54, and 80 at the start of their series. As a people, we used to marry at 13 and die at 47. Our sense of aging has changed over time. As they say, 55 is the new 75, or something like that. I get confused.
If you understood any of those references, you’re old, too.
It’s not like I’m liable to live to be 110, so I think it’s safe to say that I’m middle-aged, if not well past the mark. I’m in prime years for GOM mode. Call it peak grumpiness. After this, I’ll begin to decay and soften, eventually giving up any hope that things will get better, deciding instead that a decent night’s sleep and a proper shit are as good as things are liable to get.
I’m always a little encouraged when an old writer dies who was railing against the world until the day they died. The sheer stamina it must take. To not go gently into that good night. To stay and fight. To never give in. One could ask for less. Right now, today, I still have the energy to shake my fist at the clouds and complain. But time is running out, especially if one harbors any hope of anyone listening to you. My voice is still strong, but soon I can see my strength wavering, and my resolve deflating.
The time is now.
There is a certain comfort and camaraderie that exists between people of the same generation that transcends all other cultural characteristics. I have more in common with another 55-year-old who is Black, Gay, Muslim, or Episcopalian than I ever would with someone younger but closer to my demographic, that of a straight white Protestant male.
A shared history and common life experience are much more instructive of our worldviews than other cultural factors. I am friends with a Black woman my age. We share much more in common than plenty of other liberals, both older and younger. Generation X, as we have been dubbed, grew up in a strange transitional period. We are the bridge between the end of the Industrial Age and the start of the Information Age. We witnessed the birth of personal computers, the internet, cell phones, social media, and online dating. We’re the last generation to be natively analog.
What came after us was an epidemic of helicopter parenting and play dates, padded playgrounds, and safe spaces. Everyone quit smoking and started drinking wine. We started using sunscreen and stopped getting pensions. We got airbags and seatbelts, smartphones, and self-driving cars.
We also witnessed the decline of Western democracy, the loss of American supremacy, the first reversal of civil rights, the explosion of gun violence, and the greatest threat to national unity since the Civil War.
We’ve seen shit that would make a hooker blush and a hardened criminal shit a brick. Why do you think we’re so unfazed? Our motto might as well be, “Meh.”
I don’t believe anyone has all the answers. Nor do I think there is any single answer to anything. I don’t believe anyone who claims to have a lock on the truth, or anyone who claims to have all the answers. If you’re not full of doubt, how could you have any handle on the truth? The smartest, most knowledgeable people I know have a much deeper appreciation for how little they know. The only confident people I know are idiots, actors, and conmen. Stone-cold idiots and professional liars. They’ve got all the answers.
But I do believe in answers. I believe in truth. I believe in facts, scholarly knowledge, and relevant experience. You can’t think too grandly when seeking the truth. Seek out small answers to identifiable problems. Keep it small. Find truth where you can, in small amounts. You don’t need to solve the origin of the universe, just the problem in front of you.
One of the side benefits of searching for the truth is that you become much more sensitive to bullshit when you find it. I’m a romantic, so I want there to be an answer. But I’m also a cynic, which means I don’t trust anything at face value. My default position is skepticism, which has generally proven beneficial in the long run. I have an open mind but a critical eye. There is no free lunch; everyone wants something, and no one gets rich honestly.
I don’t think I ever was what one would call patient or chill. I’m even less so now. I’m quiet in person unless I know you, like you, and we’re talking about something I give a shit about. Then you can’t shut me the fuck up. Otherwise, I appear polite, quiet, and likely quite dull. I look like just another brainless redneck. A well-read hick with a dental plan.
I don’t know that I’ve become less tolerant, but I’ve definitely become less patient when it comes to bullshit that doesn’t involve me or that I don’t care about. It’s one of the benefits of age. I know what I want and what I don’t. That’s some pretty valuable information right there. I kid you not.
But we all atrophy with age. Wisdom will keep you from making the same mistakes, but it won’t help you solve a new problem. New problems require reckless abandon and wanton fearlessness. You have to operate despite some old codger telling you it won’t work. Young people succeed precisely because they don’t know what they don’t know and aren’t hampered by things that cannot be done. Old people can, on the other hand, point out the hole they have a very clear memory of crawling out of, which can be quite helpful. Always good to know where the holes are.
I’m afraid a large majority of the population misunderstands the phenomenon and considers the prospect of becoming a Grumpy Old Man to be one of shame and regret. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but nothing could be further from the truth. I don’t want to give too much away, but grumps enjoy being grumps. It gives us something to do and makes us feel less useless.
If done properly, being a GOM can act as a real benefit to society, allowing those with the gift of discernment to loudly proclaim the truth about the deficiencies in our culture and offer what wisdom we have in response. When executed poorly, you’re nothing more than an irritable crank shouting at the dog.
Being a GOM requires a certain amount of poetry and purposeful artistry, lest you fall into the rut of nostalgia and spite. Cranks are ignored as antisocial kooks, while Grumps can eventually rise to the level of respected philosopher.
It all comes down to hope.
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