This is what 80 looks like — and feels like
I’m typing this on my 80th birthday.
Who, me?
Yes, Mr. Face in the Mirror, you.
The Big Eight-Oh!
Good heavens. Good grief. Eight decades.
Let the adjectives cascade: Surprising. Glorious. Unexpected. Delicious. Amazing.
But most of all, lucky. Lucky to have lived this long, obviously. But lucky to exist at all.
Such Krazy Kids, my parents. Why in the world did they decide to hatch a child during a world war? Why did they bring him home to a cold-water flat and a flimsy bassinet that sat in the kitchen? How were they planning to feed the poor kid when Mom was a graduate student and Dad was working at a bookstore for minimum wage? Luck carried the day.
I was lucky in another basic way — my name.
My Dad was a huge fan of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR died just a few weeks before I was born. “Let’s name the baby Franklin Delano Levey,” my father recommended. Thanks, Mom, for being a cooler head.
Thanks, fates, for arranging for me to grow up at a time when I chased dreams but was smart enough to set them aside when necessary.
As a boy, I was head over heels for baseball. Obviously, the New York Yankees were going to need a new shortstop someday. So I would drag my poor, exhausted father out onto a dead-end street, where he would hit grounders to me by the score.
But then as now, the oldest saw about sports is the truest: Someone is always better than you are. Reality came crashing down upon me at age 12 or so. Baseball and I divorced, forever.
About three years after that, my parents bought me a guitar for my birthday. I taught myself to play, and I incubated huge dreams. If this new guy Bob Dylan could make millions with a voice like sandpaper, surely I could make zillions with my smooth baritone.
That fantasy lasted until college. I quickly found a bar near campus which featured open mic night on Wednesdays. I crooned my self-conscious compositions and waited to be discovered. I’m still waiting.
At 80, the only singing I do is in the shower. At 80, I no longer hope or try to roll boulders uphill.
My personal life took a sharp turn six years ago. The first of our four grandchildren was born. Today, two of them serenaded me with Happy Birthday via video. I’ve been smiling for hours.
Of course, no one lives this long without health challenges. I’ve had my share: Major surgery twice, right before I might have died from heart issues. Great doctors came to the rescue.
Do I thank them today, and every day? Does the sun set in the West?
This being the modern world, I got a birthday card in the mail this week. I tore it open, expectantly.
Should have known better. It was a come-on from a hearing-aid company, which had obviously mined my birthday info from driver’s license data.
I’m just glad no one could hear the language I emitted. Maybe if they’d had hearing aids, they would have.
What have I learned in 80 years? It’s more a question of what I haven’t learned.
I still have trouble with zippers and buttons. I still burn soup in saucepans because I set the flame too high. And I still type with two fingers.
When I was a mere lad, my mother — soldiering against basketball — tried to persuade me that learning to touch-type was a more useful life skill than learning to shoot free throws. I disdained, delayed, deflected — and never learned.
But I have made the best of a bad habit. I can type 80 words a minute with just my two wrinkled, crinkled index fingers. Will I change that approach any time soon? No chance.
Yet I won’t hesitate to ask my children for help, as some octogenarians might. In the last few months, I’ve inquired: What’s an influencer? What’s TikTok? What’s Instagram? They’ve had the good grace not to laugh.
In my next 80 years, I plan to eat less and exercise more (funny, those were the same vows I made 10 and 20 years ago).
In my next 80 years, I plan to bore my grandchildren with tales of stick-shift cars and rotary-dial phones.
In my next 80 years, I plan to cure cancer and run for president (sometimes I lie!).
In my next 80, I plan to talk less and listen more.
In my next 80, I promise to get up each day and look only on the bright side.
In my next 80, I plan to give away my entire fortune (uh, what fortune?).
For my next 80, I plan to keep the same spouse (you’re the best, Miss Jane).
Meanwhile, I promise to aim hard at 90. Can I do it? As lucky as I’ve been so far, don’t bet against it.
Bob Levey is a national award-winning columnist.
