Feeling a little like an old jalopy while the sports cars pass you by? Katie B. Goode has figured out how to cope: Break Down, but Live It Up.

All equipment rusts, breaks down, and eventually gets sent to the junkyard and parted out.

Guess what. We boomers are no different.

If you’re one, you may have noticed that basic maintenance isn’t as easy as it used to be.

In the old days, we’d crank up the machinery and race from zero to 60 in nothing flat. We’d tank up on a little fuel, cruise all day and night, and rock and roll forever without so much as a tune-up.

These days, start it up and the engine skips and groans and sputters. We may make it out of the garage, but we just don’t have the same pep as in the old days.

We’ve got sludge in our crankcase and leaks in our valves. We’ve got creaks in our chassis and squeaks in our seats. We’ve got rust on our bumpers and dings on our dash.

Yep, we’re coming down the final stretch. There’s not much to do but sit back and enjoy the ride … as long as it lasts anyway.

It used to be that going to the body mechanic was something you did grudgingly for your company’s annual physical. Now we wonder if we should move closer to our doctor’s office so we can save on gas.

But even if you’re not the slick roadster you used to be, there’re bound to be a few more highways, byways, and pit stops that make you forget you didn’t just fall off the assembly line.

And if you’re lucky, you’ve got a partner—old or new—to share it all with. Rolling down the road together makes you almost forget about all the rubber on the road behind you. That’s especially true when you’re with someone who still sees you as that shiny speedster he fell in love with.

And if you’re very lucky, magic happens. Somewhere along the line you go from being an old heap to a cool classic. Celebrate!

Get out the turtle wax and give yourself a fresh shine. Cover your seats. Buff your trunk.

Travel those extra miles with pride because you know what’s coming—the big junkyard in the sky; the scrap pile of eternity; the four flats of forever.

But maybe there’s hope. Pray the manufacturer has a recycling program. You may have been a rusty Ford this time around, but who knows? Maybe next time you’ll be a red hot Ferrari!

For now though … just keep on rolling.

- Check out Katie’s new blog, The Barefoot Boomer -

Post from: BoomerCafe ... it's your place

“M’am?”

The hackles on my neck—who knew I had hackles? —sprang like knives ready to fend off all attackers.

“M’am, plastic or paper?”

My head spun to the rear, hoping there was an older woman lurking behind me who could take the hit. Really older.

No one.

I snapped back and stared at the kid for a moment, still wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. “M’am?” the bag boy repeated.

You talking to me? You talking to ME?”, I thought, mentally lifting the kid up against the store window by his collar.

“How do you plead?” the judge asks.

“Not guilty, Your Honor. He called me ‘m’am’.”

A gasp in the courtroom. The judge shakes his head in shock and pounds his gavel. “Case dismissed,” he says. And I leave the courtroom, free, but forever scarred.

M’am. Just three little letters. Innocuous. Some might even think the kid was being respectful. But we know, boomer babes, we know.

I still have nightmares about that day. Being called “m’am” was just the first barb in that briar patch of aging. That morass of lost youth. That abyss of decay. It’s the first time the world recognized I was getting old.

But not the last.

First the “m’am” appellation, then my AARP card. A.A.R.P.—(Another Ancient Retro Prune) on my big 5-0 birthday. It was the beginning of the end.

Oh, it’s not that I mind getting old. I just don’t like other people treating me like I’m old.

You notice it in how people, younger people, look at you—or don’t look at you at all. It’s more like they just look through you, like you’re not even worth taking note of. You used to be tall or short, cute or pretty or handsome. Now you’re just generic. A generic pre-geriatric Boomer. Hardly worth a glance.

Is it your imagination or all of a sudden are you not as bright, not as capable, not as fun, not as interesting? Your grown child visits you in the hospital after a minor surgery and the doctor addresses him instead of you.

Hel-lo … I’m here and I’m lucid and I’m not even drooling, doctor.

But it’s not just medical concerns. Even if we’re at the top of our games in our careers, the younger stallions look at us and know… we’re on our way down and out. Move over, granny, it’s my turn now.

And they’re right. Although we may have a few good laps left, it’s getting close to pasture time. In fact, that tall grass is looking pretty good about now. Just don’t call me m’am.

Post from: BoomerCafe ... it's your place