| It’s the Chinese year of the Goat, I’m reliably informed. For me, however, 2003 also marks the year of the Geezer. Yep, it’s time to finally wave adieu and bon voyage to the lingering vestiges of my youth and instead settle down (preferably in a big comfy armchair) to the delightful prospects of middle age. I’m turning 40.
Geezerdom – the state of being a geezer – receives little attention in the media. Babies, youths (i.e. pre-teens, tweenies, teens, etc.), twentysomethings, thirtysomethings, baby boomers and seniors – all have long had magazines and TV programs devoted to their needs, concerns and problems. But what about those individuals – specifically, those males – about to enter their "difficult" fifth decade of life?
I hear your protests. Of course society has always recognized this over-privileged group. Phrases such as "life begins at 40" and "mid-life crisis" have become cliché, the subject of innumerable novels, TV dramas and well-publicized scandals over the years. Stick a fork into any year since, say, 1945 and I guarantee you’ll spike at least half a dozen examples of men turning 40 and doing daft things.
But that’s my point. The aforementioned phrases are really polar opposites, two extreme reactions to the big four-oh. You either get to erase all your former failings and, like Scrooge, start all over again, or else compound all your previous faux pas into one single, monumental fuck-up. But what about the far more common and mundane aspects of entering Geezerdom?
We’ll get to these, I promise, but first the concept itself. "Geezer," according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is slang for a "person, esp. old man" and derives from "guiser" in some old dialect or other. Of course, only a geezer would bother to look this up in the first place. In any case, the word should not be confused with "geyser," which derives from the Icelandic word for "gush," though I suppose old men in Iceland present etymologists with a particular problem.
What this bare definition fails to denote, however, is that "geezer" is qualitatively different from other colloquial references to unspecified males, such as "lad," "guy" or "bloke." The litmus test comes in sentences such as, "Who’s that old _____ over there?" or "I don’t half fancy that good-looking ____ standing at the bar" or "I dunno, officer, he’s just some ____ I found lying on the park bench." In each case, I’d argue, the choice of word is crucial in signifying (a) the speaker’s attitude and (b) the listener’s likely response.
The question arises here, I suppose: At what stage does one become a geezer? Those who like to argue that "You’re only as old as you feel" or that "Age is just a number" have a point, but I’ve yet to see the government form that asks "How old do you feel?" or "Pick a number, go on, any number" when seeking this vital statistic. That said, 40 is obviously a somewhat arbitrary selection on my part.
With this in mind, therefore, the following is a checklist of signs and symptoms that you may, in fact, be a geezer without knowing it. If you’re 50 and consider yourself clear on all counts, congratulations! You’re still genuinely young at heart. On the other hand, if you’re 30-ish and recognize three or more of these traits, then it’s too late. You’re already a geezer.
· Sport. When watching a game (live or televised), you become aware that you’re older than the oldest player on the field or ice, etc. The only exception is curling, but then if you’re watching curling you’re likely a geezer anyway. That you also have the volume turned up way too loud is another giveaway sign.
· Music. Of course today’s music isn’t as good as it used to be. I’ve been saying that ever since the tragic demise of Manfred Mann’s Earth Band. But using your own dog-eared collection of obscure vinyl as a measure of contemporary rock ’n’ roll is a sure sign of geezerdom. Here’s a quick test. Divide your own age by the age of your favourite album: if the result is two or less, then you’re a geezer alright. Here’s a quicker test. If you still compile "Top 10" lists of the best LPs of all time to share with your friends, then you’re most definitely a geezer.
· Books. You proudly regard your shelves of Amis, Lodge, Bradbury, Barnes, Burgess, Doyle, Welsh, Banks, Rankin, etc. to represent an eclectic selection of modern literature. You also always insist that "the book" was better than "the movie," regardless of the fact that (a) the book was shite, (b) you’ve never read it anyway, and (c) it doesn’t really matter. And you dismiss on principle any book with a back-cover blurb containing the phrases "life-affirming," "uniquely sensitive," "beautifully innocent," "innocently beautiful," "powerfully spiritual" or "Oprah’s Pick."
· Films. The best films were made between 1968 and 1976. You’ll go to your grave believing this, endlessly citing the dark broodiness of Taxi Driver, the dark humour of Network and the dark violence of Get Carter. To prove your point, you have each one on VHS and DVD. You also wonder why your friends have stopped coming ’round for movie night on Fridays.
· Clothes. A few sartorial clues to your entry into Geezerdom: Shirts and T-shirts left untucked. Buying underpants in packets of five, socks in packets of 10. Wearing any item bearing your company’s name or logo without a sense of embarrassment or irony (unless it’s Nortel, of course, then you’re just clinging to the last of the wreckage). Shopping at mountain equipment stores for all your casual wear, unless you live on a mountain. Tweed jackets of any kind. Cravats, period.
· Exercise. You now have to work out twice as hard and twice as often to achieve just half the result. Lying about your performance – to friends, partners, colleagues and, above all, yourself – is an integral feature of Geezerdom. On the upside, however, all your geezer friends are in the same boat, and there’s no denial like collective denial.
· Sex. See "Exercise."
Such, then, are the joys of entering Geezerdom. Bad as it may sound, however, enjoy it as much and as long as you can. For just around the corner lurks Curmudgeonville, a truly sad place indeed. Or so I’m told. |
