When I started this blogging, I thought I was entering a world of twentysomethings and thirtysomethings.
I called myself a “Senior Irish Citizen” to mark myself out from the young crowd. Like a dog pees against a tree to mark his territory.
But I am amazed to find that in fact my readers range in age from twenty or so to the over-eighties. A range of over sixty years! I’m only a youngster in comparison to some. It’s an eye opener, and I’m delighted.
There is one thing that gets on my tits though. There seems to be this thing in America of calling people Boomers. I hate that expression. I always thought that a boomer was some kind of code for a Russian submarine. Though, to me, it conjures up an image of a suicide bomber.
I’m not a suicide bomber! In fact I don’t really want to be labelled as an age group at all. I hate labelling. I’m not ‘old’. I’m not ‘elderly’. I’m not in my ‘golden years’. ‘Senior’ is OK, because a 15 year old is senior to a 14 year old. I used ‘Senior’ because I thought I would be older than most of my readers. So I label myself as a Grandad, because I am one. I label myself as retired, because I am. But these are ageless terms. Technically, I could be a grandfather in my thirties. Technically, I could be retired at any age.
The only title I sometimes bestow upon myself is ‘Old Fart’. This is partially correct, as Herself was giving out to me again last night for my resounding flatulence, which echoed through the halls of Head Rambles Manor.
So if people must apply some kind of label to those of us who’s lives don’t orbit around the latest episode of ‘Heros’ or Bebo or what Paris and Britney are up to, then let’s think up a new label.
Something along the line of “Thinkers” or “Experienced” or BTDTWTTS [Been there, done that, worn the t-shirt].