The Utter Humiliation of a Baby Boomer

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Hello everyone,

My name is Leo (a.k.a.: Boomerguy) and I too am one of the seventy-six million American loud-mouthed know-it-alls born into this world between the years 1946 through 1964, chronicled in the annals of our nationâs archives as the most fertile period in United States history. And all of us who lovingly blessed our parents during this sexual epidemic have been cordially branded as Baby Boomers, a moniker we pompously regard as some sort of Badge of Honor.

So fellow Boomers, shouldnât we give credit where creditâs due and commend our parents for being the progenitors of the Boomer Generation instead of downgrading them to the less festooned Silent Generation? Sorry, my amateurish shot at humor. Iâll work to control that.

The frequent sexual antics of a certain two members of the Silent Generation resulted in me being one of six visits the stork paid to my parents in eight years, along with three brothers and two sisters, all fragments of the Baby Boomer populace. But despite my parentsâ superabundant horniness, I could never envision my Mom and Pop ãdoing itä. Sometimes I really wished storks delivered babies much like in those old non-politically correct cartoons I dedicated my Saturday mornings watching. Shows such as Little Lulu, Betty Boop, Colonel Bleep, Beanie and Cecil, Mr. Magoo, and Felix the Cat. My favorite ö Courageous Cat and Minute Mouse.

While conjuring up my early stretch of life long forgotten, I realized how notching fifty years of existence onto my belt had taken its toll on my physical appearance. That ãSpare Tireä nestling the hips of most men my age inadvertently became a permanent fixture to my midsection. Although it slightly inflates or deflates on occasion, it seems like no amount of 8-Minute Abs workout tapes or Richard Simmonsâ Sweating to the Oldies videos can erase whatâs been building and ignored for so many years.

Once keen eagle eyes now surrender to Granny-style reading spectacles just to examine the mail or dial the telephone, suggesting my mother was right; perhaps I did sit too close to the TV. Maybe I should have eaten more carrots. How much longer before my brain deteriorates to a point where it becomes necessary to hook some dollar-store beaded chain onto my glasses so I donât lose them?

Off the record and just between us Boomers, Iâm sad to say that I may have already suffered more than a fair share of moments where my memory had not served me well. Times when I felt certain Iâd been someplace or done something before, or seen a face that looked so awfully familiar, yet when I attempted to recall those reflections or scrounge-up those abandoned memories of the past, my mind simply drew a blank.

A sign of old age? Possibly. An admonitory signal Iâve entered upon the initial stages of senility? Could be, who knows, but it does give credence to the concept that as the years slip away and oneâs brain continues to accumulate more and more of lifeâs personal biography, the headâs central processing unit reaches a point of overload and can no longer accommodate all the data being directed to its memory banks. I can only ascertain that in order to make room for new memories, the mind arbitrarily gives the boot to the older or pointless files already stowed there. And the end result? Iâm sorry, what were we talking about?

Aside from my memory doing its occasional disappearing act, there is another degenerating physical feature I acquired during the last couple years that no man with a similar existing problem enjoys discussing ö ãMale Pattern Baldnessä. Out of the blue, or perhaps I should say out of the gray, an oasis of skin had arisen from the middle of my hair desert. With my hair, or lack thereof, I now sport what is commonly referred to in the Balding Menâs Handbook as the yarmulke look, making me appear to be a Jewish man permanently on my way to some holy prayer, study, or meal.

Ah yes God, with all Her great wisdom and glory (my wife insists God is a she) has some sort of cruel inside joke where aging men are allowed to grow hair on every portion of their body except where they want it most. Lengthy, threadlike tentacles extend from the tip of my nose, my back rivals that of an adult wooly mammoth, a family of daddy longlegs set up shop inside my ears, and curlies germinate at an alarming rate in places that havenât seen sunlight in decades, yet my follicly deprived chrome dome continues to swell (unlike other parts which weâll discuss later, if I remember).

In less than a dogâs year and without forewarning, Iâve gone from a full head of hair many would die for to a head full of dying hair, and it seems like no amount of magic shampoos or miracle pills can pause or reverse this balding process ö so Iâve heard. I mean, itâs not like Iâve really tried them, really. That wouldnât be cool.

As I peer through the clouded windows of my yesterdays, forcing one open after another, I canât help contemplating whether we, as a whole, are any better off today than say thirty or forty years ago? What happened to the days when parents disciplined their children without agonizing if they faced a stiff jail sentence? When bedtime prayers and goodnight kisses were mandatory and we actually looked forward to them? Looking back, life seemed simpler then. If we made a mistake, it was easily corrected by yelling, ãdo overä and a nickel from the tooth fairy made your siblings jealous and got you a candy bar at the local sweetshop.

Needless to say, I was much younger then without a care in the world. I didnât have all the responsibilities I have today on top of a family of my own depending on me. I guess thatâs what made them the good old days. Just reminiscing about my bygone life brings about memories of such eudemonic times that it instills this dumb shit-eating grin to my face. Hence the fantasy; ãWhat I wouldnât give to do it all over again?ä

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