How Not To Act Old

There was a brief moment when name-hyphenization seemed like the answer to all marital-equality issues. A moment when two people might have gotten married and become Pamela and Richard Redmond-Satran. (Not that we ever did that: My husband declined to take the Redmond, so I just dragged both names behind me like a big fat butt, without the hyphen connecting them.)

But back to you: The whole hyphen thing seemed like a good idea for about a minute and a half, until the jokes started about what would happen when Gabriella Redmond-Satran (not one of our real children) married Marmaduke Martini-O’Flaherty. Would their child be called Maximilian Redmond-Satran-Martini-O’Flaherty?

And then there was the question of whose name went first, and whether the husband as well as the wife would adopt the hyphenization, until the notion just collapsed. Before that, however, several hundred people got married and hyphenated their names. All those people are now over the age of 50. Or just sound like it.

All right, you know you’re not supposed to wear granny panties. But what’s wrong with bikinis? Why does acting young have to mean wearing a thong?

Thongs are…..uncomfortable. Even the ones that are supposed to be comfortable are uncomfortable. They make you feel like you have an intractable wedgie. Plus, they make you feel completely exposed. Like you’re hardly wearing any underwear at all.

But listen, that’s the next step: Going commando, ala Britney. So think of thong-wearing as a compromise in sexiness.

If you want to avoid acting old, do not discuss your digestive tract in any way, ever, says my friend and fellow writer Christina Baker Kline. That means no talk of bran muffins or lactose intolerance, no references to regularity or heartburn, no jokes about gas or “tummy troubles.”

We all know it happens, but the world just doesn’t want to hear about the source of your upset tummy, okay? Quietly chew on your Tums and down your prophylactic Bean-O. Silently excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and afterwards, don’t regale us with tales of what happened there. Keep all burps, farts, gurgles, acid indigestion, and reflux episodes, as much as possible, to yourself.

I know you’re not a monster; It’s just that you’re sooooooo over the baby thing. You’ve already put in your time jollying the infant who started crying in the middle of the meal, bouncing the toddler up and down the aisle of the plane, being pinned beneath the child who refused to sit anywhere but your lap. And you’re ready for some freedom.

But avoiding babies is like admitting you hate kittens, or sunshine. It makes you seem mean, cranky — dare I say Bush-like?

When you were 13, you had the hugest crush on the lifeguard, who totally ignored you. Then, when you were 19 or 23, the lifeguard may have lusted after you, but you decided he or she was too immature to warrant your attention. When you were 35, you were too busy making sure the kids didn’t drown to notice.

It’s only now that you’re able to fully appreciate the lifeguard’s virtues, and to fantasize that maybe he or she appreciates yours in return. This is the point at which you have to imagine me slapping you across the face and crying, “Snap out of it!” And that directive isn’t even allowing for the possibility that the lifeguard is a minor.

Unless we’re talking about the world’s Oldest Living Lifeguard — you know, the guy whose skin is so weathered you could make a purse out of it — the lifeguard is too young for you.

Leave it to the evil young to get all of us alter kockers addicted to email, and then to abandon the form in favor of texting and facebook. Like waxing, email is proving to be one of the Great Age Divides. Old people can’t figure out why anyone would text, IM, or facebook (wait: is that a verb?) instead of email: How do you type with your thumbs? Why would you want everyone to read your posts? And young people hate emailing because it’s…..old.

Well, I don’t care if email is old: I can’t stop using it. That’s right, I’m addicted to it, just like I am to dark chocolate and nitrous oxide. I joined all those other services and now I don’t know what to do with them or on them or however you say it. So if you want to get in touch with me, send me an email at hownottoactold@gmail.com.

I hate to say it, but I tend to be like this: perennially on a diet. Rarely at the weight I want to stay. Tedious, frustrating, and old old old.

Why old? Because it lacks the can-do spirit evidenced by the younger generation of women. That Better-Body-After-Baby ideal, that Biggest Loser mentality and that get the best waist trainer attitude. It was our mothers and their friends who were always trudging to Weight Watchers yet never quite managing to be thin.

Of course, if you’re not always on a diet, not always reading about diet tablets or checking this post on Nutrisystem Lean 13 reviews, you might get fat. But at least you won’t be so old.

Dear Bruce: I’m so sorry. It kills me to do this. But I love you, and I know you’d want me to tell the truth as I see it deep in my heart. So as wonderful as you are, as much as I admire you, as much as I still love to dance and drive to your songs, I’m afraid that makes me old.

It seems like just yesterday — though it was 1975 — that I first saw you onstage in Milwaukee singing Born To Run. You were so sexy, I went out with a guy in my writing class solely because he looked like you. Much more recently, I saw you shopping for earrings in Barney’s with Patty, who was much more gorgeous in real life than in pictures. I thought you still looked pretty hot. Though a lot less hot than you looked in 1975.

Don’t worry, Bruce, I’ll keep in touch. I’ll still (secretly) buy your albums, or download your songs, or whatever it’s called these days. I’ll still dance (alone) to Born To Run. But in public, I’m going to have to act like I don’t know you, okay?

Sure, there are Young Republicans, just like there’s Jumbo Shrimp and Soft Rock. It’s an oxymoron: All Republicans are, in spirit if not in years, old. They’re conservatives, which by definition means they’re against change and for the status quo. They’re pro-money — and why not, since as old white men, they have plenty. And against abortion — again why not, since as old white men, they can’t get pregnant.

Even if, for some bizarre reason, your politics line up with the Republicans, I still implore you to resist voting with them. Think of how old their presidential candidate is compared with the Democrats’. Think, even more important, of your image.

I might have said Don’t Grow A Goatee, but my husband has a goatee and he looks pretty good in it, or at least he’s had it so long we’re afraid to see what he looks like without it. So I’ll hold the line here at mustache.

Mustaches are the facial hair of cops and porn stars. Most men who wear mustaches do so because they grew them in 1978 at the behest of some foxy chick, and still think a hairy upper lip makes them look 23, or 47 at the very oldest.

Guys, shave the ‘stache. Here if you dont know how, this will get you started: www.startifacts.com. And for the love of God, don’t replace it with a soul patch. You can do a full beard these days, but only if you maintain it with proper beard oil and regular trimming.