I have always assumed I was a “Baby Boomer.” I thought it was my birthright. Being part of the sixties generation means you’re a Boomer – done deal. So imagine my surprise then when Dr. Peter Whitehouse, Dr. Sylvain Moreno, and Baycrest Hospital showed me the fine print.  The cut off year for being a Boomer is 1946. I was born in 1945 and am too old to be a Boomer! No second adulthood for me; no “encore career.”

Just as I am beginning despair and start looking for someone to play shuffleboard with, I overhear a conversation that Jena is having with someone who says older adults don’t understand computers. Not only that, this person continues, there’s no way they could ever master an interface as complicated as Second Life or Worlds of Warcraft.

These comments remind me of the years I taught primarily African-American kids in Brentwood, Long Island. Back then I had to listen to racist comments from fellow teachers who expected nothing from these kids. They were the same kids, by the way, who eventually made movies and wrote poetry in my classes.

At Scholastic Productions at the dawn of the home computer revolution, I listened to sexist comments about how computer literacy could only be taught to boys. Girls, I was told, were not interested in computers and wouldn’t understand them. We produced the “Magic School Bus,” and following Ms. Frizzle’s lead, girls started to get excited about science and math and are now as computer literate as anyone else.

Clearly we have not beat racism or sexism, so I guess I should not be surprised by ageist thinking that assumes older folks just don’t, won’t and worse, can’t get computers, the Internet, social networks, gaming or virtual worlds. Where are the Gray Panthers when you need them?!

One group of enlightened folks, including world-class neuroscientists, tell us we maintain and can even enhance cognitive skills by learning new things. We are invited into our “Second Adulthoods,” and “Encore Careers,” but the assumption seems to be that we will have to get by with paper and pencil or a Selectric typewriter.

Computers are a mass market technology (an appliance), and as we have all seen, particularly with even 2 to 3 year olds, there are no warning labels to keep them out of the hands of children. Why then are some people telling us to keep them out of the hands of older adults?

In fairness, these ageist comments are not danger warnings. They are more cynical than that.  What they are saying is that older adults are… well… too old.  And the worst of it is that just like other forms of racism, the members of the victimized class believe the stereotype, know their place and stay in it.

Our elders are more valuable to us and the planet than Google. They have more than facts to share. They have wisdom to be shared through stories. They create the context and perspective we need, the meaning and morality that live beyond the facts.

Virtual reality, we are learning, is just another kind of reality. As an avatar, you are ageless and gender neutral if you want to be. There can be social engagement, education, travel, sports, concerts, walks in the woods and paid and/or volunteer work.  These are all the things that  neuroscience has proven are critical to cognitive health and to delaying the onset of dementia.

Add sensors and monitors, avatar delivered physical and mental therapies that combine virtual experiences with Microsoft Kinect or Wii and you have a humane, socially and culturally rich solution for aging in place.

The digital revolution should not be segregated by age. The uninitiated have to be initiated. There are no age requirements for becoming a digital native.  Beginning in the 1950′s and continuing until today, no one is excluded from the television generation, and no one would have allowed themselves to be. The programs, the content, the stories drove the revolution, and the same is becoming true with the Internet and social networks, games and virtual worlds.

Use virtual and digital reality to tell good stories and everyone will want to watch, engage and interact across generations and across cultures. Excluding elders, placing them in an analog ghetto and assuming they are digitally handicapped, makes promises of a second adulthood and encore careers a sham. In order to make these promises real, they will have to be pixelated.

I’d also been desperate enough for reading material to peruse one of the articles in the magazines scattered around my doctor’s office on how to shape, tighten, sculpt and otherwise redefine the gluteus maximus muscles. But that was the extent of my experience until two women, holding an animated conversation outside my dressing room door at the gym, introduced me to the thong controversy.

Thongs – underwear and bathing suit bottoms in which a slender thread of fabric resting between the cheeks of the buttocks replaces the entire back and side panels of a standard set of drawers – are apparently all the rage amongst the younger generation and all the outrage amongst the older.

“I just don’t understand Christie,” complained a deep contralto voice outside my door. “No matter what I say she insists on wearing thongs!”

“I don’t understand the appeal either,” conceded a second voice. “They sure look uncomfortable.”

“No panty lines, or so she says,” harrumphed the first voice. “More like no morals if you ask me!”

“Oh honestly Maureen,” the second voice chided. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a bit?”

“No,” said Maureen emphatically, “and let me tell you why.”

Much as I would’ve liked to discover why thongs are a sign of moral depravity, I was running late. I cleared my throat, shuffled the contents of my gym bag, and opened the door. Two startled looking women in bright, one-piece swimsuits and rubber bathing caps backed hurriedly away from the door.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured them as I passed, “I don’t wear thongs.”

As luck would have it, the subject came up again the next week when my friend and her mother came to town. They were staying at a nearby luxury hotel and invited me to join them for an afternoon of sunbathing by the Olympic sized pool. When I arrived I found them having a heated discussion beneath their umbrellas.

“Thank heavens you’re here,” said my friend Sandra. “Will you please tell my mother it’s not polite to discuss other people’s butts in public?”

“What?!” I exclaimed. “Who’s discussing  whose buns?”

“I am,” said Sandra’s mother matter-of-factly. An ex-ballet dancer and devoted yoga practitioner, she is 76, looks 60, and has no qualms about discussing any and all body functions in graphic detail. “I mean if you’re going to wear a thong then you’ve got to expect people to comment, right?”

“I never really thought it,”  I confessed.

“Take that woman over there,” she continued, gesturing towards a willowy brunette whose bare cheeks, neatly divided by a lime green strip of fabric, were perched on the edge of the pool. “She obviously works out and has a nice set to show for it. I don’t mind looking at her at all. But this fellow over here with all the hair….” her voice trailed off and she gave a dramatic shiver.

“Mother!” Sandra protested.

“Oh all right,” her mother chuckled. “I can’t believe I raised such a prude. But you see my point don’t you?” she asked, looking up at me over the top of her mirrored sunglasses.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“My point,” came the exasperated reply, “is that you’d better have the buns to pull it off if you plan to wear a thong.”

“Right,” I nodded, still feeling confused. “But what about you? Would you wear one?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed. Those are the most uncomfortable, awkward-looking things I’ve ever tried on. I wouldn’t be caught dead in one.

“Well that’s a relief anyway,” said Sandra, and changed the subject.

Though I sympathized with her frustration I tended to agree that she’d had a senior moment. Then my 56-year-old cousin e-mailed to say she’d lost her keys, which meant she couldn’t drive her son to school, pick up her allergy prescription and dry cleaning, or meet her friends at the airport. She was miffed at her absentmindedness and wondered if I thought the cause was menopause.

“No,” I typed back, “I think your life is just waaaay too busy!”

Next, in my rush to get to the gym, I walked out the door and drove all the way to the club without my wallet. Standing at the front desk unable to produce my membership card to check in, I wondered if I was trapped in some kind of genetic cascade effect that had started with the oldest member of my family and was working its way down the line. Would I arrive home to discover the 35-year-old nephew had misplaced some legal briefs or my 12-year-old niece couldn’t find her Spice Girls poster?

But no, the moment I walked into the women’s locker room I knew that whatever peculiar malady had befallen my family was having an effect on the rest of the world as well. There I was met by a line of half-dressed women who held up their hands and commanded, “Stop!”

“What’s going on?” I asked, peering over their shoulders and catching a glimpse of a small woman crawling around on the floor.

“Mrs. Sato lost her earring,” said a stern looking member of the group. “You cannot pass.”

Bowing to authority, I retreated to the main workout room and climbed aboard a treadmill. There I was greeted by a short, cheerful woman named Emma who was just finishing her workout.

“So what did you lose today?” I asked.

“Nothing that I know of,” she replied, looking puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

I explained about the string of events and she laughed.

“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” she said. “Besides, my life is so well-organized that nothing would dare misplace itself.”

Forty minutes later I emerged from the gym and headed for the parking lot. There I saw Emma standing near a side entrance looking more than a little flustered and annoyed. Her gym bag and racquet were piled at her feet and she was punching buttons on her cell phone with obvious anger.

“What’s going on?” I asked

“My sister was supposed to pick me up,” she said, “but she left a message saying she lost the directions to the gym.”

On top of that, Emma’s sister was not answering her phone.

“Would you like a ride?” I asked.

“Oh that would be great,” she sighed with relief.

“No problem at all,” assured her as I began rummaging in my overstuffed purse. ” Just let me find my keys.”

Over time my taste in quotes has evolved. Back in my 20s I kept a small three-by-five postcard taped to the wall beside my bed. On that card was a sketch of a person crawling around on the floor looking distressed, the way people do when they’ve lost a contact lens.  In the upper right hand corner of the picture was a tiny window of light. The caption on the card read, “I’m in search of myself.  Have you seen me anywhere?”

I particularly liked that the author was someone named, “Anonymous.”

Later, when my Self had been found but I wasn’t too pleased with the discovery, I liked to quote Sylvia Plath: “Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

When I stopped blaming myself and started blaming others, I favored Yeats: “Things fall apart: the center cannot hold;” and radical feminists like Gloria Steinem: A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.”

The existential angst produced by my failure to write the great American novel, or at the very last to win a Pulitzer, by the age of 35 had me reciting cryptic one-liners about the writing profession: “There are no dull subjects. There are only dull writers.” – H.L. Mencken.

This writing business. Pencils and what not. Overrated if you ask me.” – Eeyore.

I also developed an intense interest in martyrdom and meditation. Since then I’ve discovered that I’m uniquely unsuited to a life of self-sacrifice and much too addicted to words to want to clear my mind of them for any length of time.  Instead I find myself drawn more and more to writers who have something to say about aging.

I’d never thought much about getting older until a couple of years ago when my mom’s nurse asked me how long ago I’d retired. I was 48 at the time. Not long after that, while shopping for cards with my niece at the local drugstore, a cashier asked me how old my granddaughter was.

Well! This sent me running to the mirror where I noticed that the smiles lines around my eyes had deepened and the skin below my chin was acquiring a slight wobble. ”When did that happen?” I wondered aloud.

And so, like all well-brainwashed American women, I panicked and invested in a stockpile of creams, exfoliants, masks, dyes, highlighters, eyeliners, foundations, blushes, lipsticks, lip glosses and toners. The results were reasonably satisfying, but the effort required to get myself out the door in the mornings was phenomenal. My dedication to the cause lasted only a few short weeks. Then I quit cold turkey and never looked back.

Today my favorite quote is one written by a woman named Cora Harvey Armstrong. Clearly an astute observer of the human condition, she summed up my situation perfectly: “In side every older person is a younger person wondering what the hell happened.”

The first time I attempted to get on a freeway, accelerating steadily to 65 on the on-ramp and signaling my intention to merge, a determined looking fellow roared up behind me in a low slung black roadster, swerved inches from my bumper, and zipped past me on the shoulder, raising my blood pressure several notches.

Once on the freeway it became clear that California drivers had made a collective decision to ignore the posted speed limit. It was a simple case of majority rules and anyone adhering to the 65 mph rule was clearly in the minority and liable to be ticketed for impeding the flow of traffic.

Despite the fact that I coaxed my island-raised Escort to a whopping 75 mph, hulking SUBs and squatty mini-vans were flying past at 80 to 100 mph.  Later that afternoon I took surface streets home, arriving a little late, but with my composure intact.

Freeways, however, are not the only place where cars rule in Los Angeles. People here occupy their cars the way folks in other parts of the country inhabit their homes. While sitting at stop lights, I’ve seen L.A. drivers shaving, dressing, kissing, applying make-up and underarm deodorant, brushing their hair, flossing their teeth, eating multi-course meals and chatting on cell phones.

Cars even function as singles bars in L.S. I was once entertained for a full 20 minutes by a clean-cut, red-haired young man with a diamond stud in one ear who was driving a silver Mustang. He struck up a conversation with an attractive brunette in a sporty red Honda in the lane next to him.  The woman had remarkably white teeth and a feisty little Jack Russell terrier that hung out the window and yapped disapprovingly at the young man whenever he spoke.  By the time the traffic jam broke up the two had exchanged significant looks and pieces of paper, presumably bearing phone numbers and e-mail addresses. They didn’t seem to mind that dozens of cranky motorists were watching their flirtation unfold, and in truth I was grateful for the diversion. I only wish I’d thought to pack some popcorn when I left that morning.

Yes, as you can see I’ve begun to adjust to life in the Los Angeles fast lane. I now do most of my errands by car, dropping off letters, depositing checks, fill prescriptions and visiting Starbucks without ever leaving the comfort of my front seat.

I’ve also become proficient at rolling through stop signs, high-speed acceleration from lights, and rapid lane changes. I roll my eyes in exasperation whenever some out-of-town driver makes a leisurely entrance into traffic.

The one thing you can be sure of is that once you’ve driven the L.A. freeways, your heart will never be quite the same.

A deep frown creased her forehead and she was muttering to herself. The expression on her face should have warned me to keep my distance, but I was curious to know what had claimed her full and clearly vexed attention.

“Whatcha doing Mom?” I asked, trying to peer over her shoulder. Her response was to move closer to the chair and hunch protectively over her work.

“Changing purses,” she grumbled, stuffing a travel size bottle of aspirin and a handful of loose change into a big, black handbag.  ”I hate changing purses!”

“Changing purses?” I was totally bemused. My mother had been carrying a very nice off-white leather purse for several months now.  ”Did the other one break?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “It’s September and you’re not supposed to carry white after Labor Day.”

“You’re not?”

“No, and besides, I’m wearing black shoes,” she added, as if that explained everything.

‘Oh,” I said, and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen where I busied myself making a cup of tea while eavesdropping on Mom’s ongoing comment.

Who, I wondered, had decreed that everyone has to switch to dark colors after Labor Day and that purses and shoes have to match?  I searched my memory for some rule of etiquette that I might have conveniently forgotten (I’m very good at forgetting rules I choose to ignore). My mother had been a stickler when it came to manners, so the “don’t talk with your mouth full,” “show respect for your elders,” and “don’t wipe your nose on the back of your sleeve” rules were firmly engrained. She’d also done a good job of teaching me how to coordinate various styles and colors of clothing.  But I drew a blank when it came to purses and shoes.

Then I recalled the unwritten dress codes that defined my high school and college years.  We carried backpacks, not purses, but it was important to have particular fabrics and colors if you expected to run with the “in” crowd.  In addition, the shape and color of the swish (or is it swoosh) on your running shoes could make or break your fashion statement. Ditto the label on your jeans.

Then there were the girls who used to gather in the restroom to compare designer label underwear.  Fortunately I was never popular enough to be included in that ritual.

Today’s kids, I’ve noticed, have a definite thing about baggy pants and spiked, colored hair. There’s also some sort of pecking order involved with the various kinds of piercings and decorative tattoos.  But I’m too busy flinching and trying not to look to figure that one out.  The only good ting about this penchant for the extreme is that my mother no longer accuses me and my generation of undermining the moral fabric of the country, or of being too “far out” for our own good.

Now when the two of use go out together, she takes my arm and suggests that we steer clear of the pack of pierced and spike-haired teenagers that likes to hang out on the corner of our street and smoke.

“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” says my mother, “but I’m sure glad you turned out all right.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate their help,” she says, “but I wish they’d wait until I ask for it.”

Curious to know if Mom’s experience was the norm, I consulted my 83-year-old friend Tim.

“Well that depends,” he replied, pulling at the natty ends of his yellowing beard.

“Depends on what?” I asked.

“On whether or not the older person is cute.”

“Cute?”

“That’s what I said,” he nodded. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those tiny older ladies in pink polyester carrying their mop dogs around in their purses? Now those gals are cute!”

“They are?” I asked, puzzled.

“Sure they are! They’re fragile and helpless looking. People just naturally want to carry their groceries.”

“But my mom isn’t little and helpless looking,” I protested.  ”And she never wears pink polyester.”

“What does she look like?”

I described my mother – a short, round woman with soft gray curls, kind eyes and big, owlish glasses.

“Cute,” said Tom with authority.

“Really?”

“Oh yea,” he said. “What’s the matter with you anyway? Don’t you recognize cute when you see it?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Are you cute?”

“Hello no!” Tom barked. “I’m what you call old and crusty.”

For the rest of the week I paid special attention to the older people I saw around town and in store. I had to admit that there were some who were “cuter” than others, but that still didn’t explain why younger people persisted in treating them as if they were helpless.

Then, at a home and garden supply store, I watched as a young employee with a pierced and dragon tattoo showed a white-haired, stoop-shouldered gentleman how to install a complicated lock system.  The young man spoke very slowly and stopped often to ask if the older man understood his instructions.

When the lesson was over, the young man went off to tend to another customer and I watched as the elderly gentleman disassembled the lock, tightened a screw, and put the whole thing back together in less time than it had taken the clerk to open the package.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve been taking these things apart and putting them together for years,” he said.

“Really,” I said. “Then why did you let that kid talk down to you like that?”

The older man shrugged.

“I figured he needed practice putting things together and he sure as hell needs work on his people skills.”

I laughed and told him I couldn’t agree more. Now when I see a young person carefully explaining something to a bright-eyed amused looking senior I have to wonder just who is helping who.

She’s neither overweight nor under-endowed, and is entitled to use a couple of fancy sounding letters after her name.  In my book she’s doing great, so naturally I thought we should celebrate.  She, however, wanted to mourn.

I suggested cake and ice cream.  She suggested cosmetic surgery. I looked at the laugh lines around her kind, gray eyes and wished I’d brought my sketchbook. She pushed and pulled at the skin of her face, trying to stretch out the creases, and discussed the pros and cons of Botox.

Defeated, I left her to her fatalistic musings and went home to look at my own face in the mirror. If truth be told, I kind of like the faint shadows that have appeared beneath my eyes and the crevices that define the corners of my mouth. But then I’m a writer and we tend to see hollow cheeks, haggard lines and weary eyes as merit badges. It’s part of the image we try to cultivate, so maybe my opinion doesn’t count.

Then I went to a store to pick up a loaf of bread and perused the magazine racks on the way through checkout. Within moments I was reminded that once you pass the age of 50 you disappear from the pages of popular media. Even the covers of the publications that cater to older readers feature photos of models in their 20s and 30s who obviously don’t get enough to eat.  No wonder my friend was feeling depressed. She just became invisible.

Personally, I’m relieved to have hit the pint of no return.  Hopelessly aged status means I no longer need to subscribe to women’s magazines to keep up on the latest diets, exercise routines or dating advice. The represents a significant savings in both time and money every month.  Since I’m expected to be fat and flabby, I now feel free to dismiss the telemarketers trying to sell me memberships to upscale health clubs with slip statements like, “Sorry but at my age strenuous exercise isn’t recommended.”  I can also justify the occasional cookie or two or three before bed because I no longer care what Jenny Craig thinks of my thighs.

I will admit that all the junk mail I’ve started to get urging me to buy cemetery plots, extra life insurance, and all manner of vitamins, minerals, herbs, generic drugs and orthopedic supplies is a bit of a downer. But compared to the ad campaigns for make-up and dating services I used to receive, they’re a piece of cake to ignore.

Finally, honesty compels me to confess that after years of trying to remake myself into the ever-changing model of an “attractive woman,” I’ve come to like myself at last.  As audacious (somewhat might even say arrogant) as that may sound, I know I’ve earned every color-challenged hair on my head and have no intention of washing the gray away.  Nor am I interested in whitening my teeth, tucking my tummy, or sculpting my abs.

That said, I think what I’m going to do is give my friend a call and suggest dinner and a sappy movie. After all, there’s nothing better than a Hollywood happy ending to put life in proper perspective.