Post-boomerism

Thursday evening at the theater and the gray hairs have it. The usher, a nice young strapping man with dark curly hair, his main duty is to lend a chivalrous arm to the supra-eighty ladies stepping out for the evening. I see him trodding the same path up and down the main aisle thrice in the quarter hour before curtain. Indeed, the starring role tonight is played by a senior. These are his groupies. The personal finance television shows are obsessed with retirement. I still have thirty years to think about, any advice in the meantime? Very little, as it turns out. My apartment, recently constructed, has been designed with doors accommodating arthritic hands, a bathroom wide enough for a zimmer walker to circle around in, and a thermostat within reach from a sitting wheel chair position. The front door is accessorized with a big blue button that automatically opens it; the modern-day butler certain. This is useful to me when I wheel in a cart of groceries. And the sidewalk ramps keep my eggs from cracking. I am old before my time.