The Septuagenarian
A recent article set me off, not because of its content (it was rather vapid) but because the preppy little princess who authored the thing kept chirping on about “the septuagenarian”, apparently her new favourite word.
Septuagenarian? What the heck are “septuagenarians”? Are they custodians of septuagens? Maybe officers in the Roman Senate? Perhaps septuagenarians lurk in the crypts of pyramids, waiting for unsuspecting explorers (cue creepy music).
In truth, a septuagenarian is simply a human who (like myself) has evaded the Grim Reaper for more than sixty-nine but not yet eighty years. But apparently it imports more than that, implying decrepitude, senility, and… and… oh heck, I forget the other thing.
In our enlightened world, you can’t be derogatory about anyone’s gender, ethnicity, hair colour, body mass index, or sexual preference. Quite properly so. But once you’re older than about fifty, you become fair game for condescension. “Angry Grandma Fights Off Mugger!” screams the headline. What does having grandchildren have to do with the story? If you had written “Angry L-sb–n Fights Off Mugger”, the sirens of the Political Police would be on your street before the page came out of the printer.
“Seniors in Perth Find Solace in Gardening”. Well, truth be told, here in Lanark County, the plants they’re growing are likely governed by s12(4) of the Cannabis Act.
“Man, 74, Found Wandering in Forest”. I’ll bet if he’d been 44, there would have been no mention of age. Why is it relevant? “Well, we’re just trying to paint a picture, you know. Let the folks get a better mental image.” Sure, a picture of some doddering old buzzard, lost and confused. Schmaltz sells.
Even the Law Society gets in on the act. If you leave the profession while you’re 64 or younger, you dance out free. But if you retire at 65 or more, you have to report in every year and pay a fee for doing so. Makes us feel special, I suppose.
The rules that apply to everyone else don’t apply to septuagenarians, sexagenarians, nonagenarians, octogenarians, centenarians, or anyone else who has managed to stay alive in this crazy world for longer than the chirpy little reporters who write the headlines. The Political Correctness Police won’t even answer the phone for septuagenarians. Probably tired of having to repeat themselves.
Maybe somebody should start a rumour that the sex in sexagenarian is a sly double entendre. That might spark a little positive press.
Even if you’re the President of the United States, you can’t seem to escape smartass and groundless wisecracks about needing a nap. Half the right-wing bloggers who cackled when Biden fell off his bicycle wouldn’t even know how to ride one. Young whippersnappers!
Call me a codger, if you like (it’s quite politically correct), and a senile one, at that. Tell the world about the rant of a cranky old man with too much time on his hands.
I can see the headlines now: “Canadian Septuagenarian Raises Cane Against the Press!”
And when they call for details, I’ll feign senility and hearing loss. They fall for it every time.