Mostly, I believe I’m perceived as a patient person. Actually, it’s more than mere perception: I am a patient person.

I know things don’t happen right away. I believe that “all things in their own time” is a good motto to live by. I realize that others have skill levels arranged on a continuum – and that they have various, competing priorities in their lives that don’t coincide with mine. And I know that having low expectations is probably a good strategy to maintain one’s own mental and emotional health.

Yes, being patient is a good thing.

Still, there are some behaviors out there in the world that I have very little use for. For example, it wasn’t long ago that I went on a rant about cell-phone users. I have absolutely zero tolerance for people who believe that shouting out the trivia of their lives to the world is more important than respecting others’ rights (to a little peace and quiet). I was at lunch in a Chinese restaurant two days ago, with a couple of work colleagues, when one of those walkie-talkie-type cell phones sounded off (right next to us). I turned to the (totally-oblivious) guy who was speaking into his mobile device while, at the same time, shoveling fried rice into his pie-hole. I mouthed, in his direction, much to the surprise of my lunch companions, “will you shut the f#*k up?!?!” (This asshole neither saw me nor heard me. Unfortunately.)

Then, yesterday, I was at Kinko’s doing some photocopying, while all the time listening to an embarrassingly-personal conversation between a woman and (apparently) one of her girlfriends. Their discussion of a relationship gone bad was something that really should have been carried out in private. Really.

Ok, enough about cell-phone etiquette (for now). The topic of today’s rant is about punctuality. Or, more specifically, the lack of consideration some people show to other people when they arrive late.

Isn’t this, though, the same kind of thing as the cell-phone issue: lack of sensitivity to, and respect for, others?

Last Wednesday, I had interviews scheduled to start in the early afternoon. I was the leader of a small, three-person hiring committee. We had a few, back-to-back, forty-five-minute interviews on the calendar. Still, one of the other two on the committee didn’t show up until fifteen minutes past the anticipated start time, thereby throwing everyone’s schedule off for the rest of the day. Candidates who had been instructed to arrive fifteen minutes early to review the questions, instead ended up with a thirty-minute wait before I went to fetch them.

The next day I was scheduled into a committee meeting that was to begin at 11:00 a.m. I arrived on time and there were only two others present (of a twelve-member group). The remainder continued to dribble in, until finally at fifteen minutes past the hour, the chairperson arrived and the meeting was called to order.

These are only two examples of the kind of chronic, non-punctual behavior I encounter on a daily basis. And I find it maddening!

Here’s what I think you’re saying when you show up late: you’re the center of the universe. That no one, or nothing, is as important as you and your agenda. That the time of others doesn’t count. That others don’t count.

For the record, let me declare to all you loud cell-phone users and “running-late” people (and I know this will be news): IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU!

(Really, honest-to-god, it isn’t.)

Dan Burns (played by Steve Carell) writes a daily newspaper advice column entitled “Dan in Real Life.” He’s a widower and the anxious, overprotective father of three daughters. The wisdom about love and life he offers up to his readers apparently comes from a voice within that he is able to transmit but cannot really hear himself. The morning after he and the kids show up at his parents’ (Dianne Wiest and John Mahoney) beach house for a holiday, family-reunion-type weekend, his mother immediately orders him to go out and “buy the papers” — and take some time away from his daughters who are obviously exasperated with their totally-not-so-cool dad.

It’s in a used-book store, where Dan decides to buy the morning newspaper, that he meets Marie (Juliette Binoche). Marie is obviously in the midst of some kind of minor personal crisis and she “needs a book” to get her through. She asks Dan for some help thinking that he’s an employee there. Although amusing and obliging, he eventually gets busted as just another customer. After asking Marie if he can make it up to her, Dan, in the initial stages of infatuation, spends a good portion of the rest of the morning telling her his life story.

It’s only when she eventually gets called away, and he returns back to the beach house, that he learns this “hottie” he’s found is the new girlfriend of his brother Mitch (Dane Cook). And that this weekend is to be her induction into the family.

The rest of the movie, Dan in Real Life, is spent illustrating the myriad awkward (some hilarious, some touching) moments that arise when, in the middle of this intimate family gathering, Dan and Marie work through their mutual-attraction issues.

This is a romantic comedy, of course, so it’s a happy ending. And while the outcome is entirely predictable, I recommend that you, too, see this movie. Treat yourself: escape for awhile and vicariously experience some of those giddy, beginning-of-a-relationship feelings.

So here’s why I mention any of this…

I believe this film reinforces one of life’s basic truisms. Namely: you just never know. For there you are, completely minding your own business and, wham (!), for better or worse, you turn a corner (or enter a bookstore) and your entire life changes. Further, while you can make plans for your time here on earth, the advice remains: expect the unexpected.

“…the only thing you can truly plan on…is to be surprised.”

I think you’ll agree that Boomers’ bodies are showing definite signs of wear and tear … and that these fragile shells of ours need more and more attention as time marches on. Of course, those of us attending to such maintenance chores are the fortunate ones: we’re still here.

To help monitor and support my body, I see a primary-care physician; a urologist; a neurologist; a rheumatologist; an opthamologist; a physical therapist; a massage therapist; a bodywork therapist; a naturopath; and a practitioner of Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM). I’ve moved three times in the last four years, and every time I’ve done so, I’ve needed to make it a first order of business to assemble a new team.

I am watchful of my cholesterol and blood pressure, and obsess about my PSA. I dread the twice-yearly DRE. I’ve had a colonoscopy and a cystoscopy. At one point, I needed to wait, for eight long days, on the results of a prostate biopsy. During one long emergency-room visit some time ago, I was (mis-) diagnosed with bladder cancer.

But, knock on wood: I have never needed the services of an oncologist. Or a surgeon. And my new physical therapist recently observed that I am “basically healthy.”

Still, when you get to be a sexagenarian, the probability of needing a highly-skilled medical specialist increases virtually every minute. And all of us have family, friends and loved ones who have been very ill or are no longer with us.

To help ensure that I delay the need for extreme intervention as long as possible, I spend (what I believe to be) inordinate amounts of time and energy every day focusing on this old bod. I walk, I stretch, I ice my back and shoulders. I soak in hot Epsom-salt baths. I engage in a rigorous regimen of vitamins, minerals, supplements and TCM herbs. I drink green tea and lots of water. I eat small portions of mostly-healthy foods. I don’t drink or smoke. I avoid sugar, preservatives, red meat and caffeine. I have regular bodywork and physical-therapy appointments. I read, and collect, books on a variety of health issues. I subscribe to an internet newsletter that provides me with regular updates on natural health and healing. And I check in with an online fibromyalgia support group on occasion.

I’ve been thinking that, pretty much, getting old is a full-time job. No wonder there’s such a thing as retirement! Who has time to work when there’s so much other stuff in life to pay attention to?

As I enjoy a leisurely holiday weekend away from my current place of employment, I’m thankful for my basic good health. And that I’m a Boomer. For if there’s anything good about being a member of this generation, it’s that you’re never, really, alone.

Turning 60 is not an insignificant milestone. It sure has me thinking a lot lately, given that I’m now about three months into my seventh decade.

And it appears that I’m not the only one with the implications of baby-boomer aging on my mind.

Last month, in an op-ed piece entitled “Second Acts,” Boston Globe columnist Ellen Goodman told a small part of the Al Gore story…in essence arguing that, in the aftermath of his loss to George W. Bush, Gore was able to rediscover his true calling. Goodman believes that he “found himself by losing himself – literally losing – and being liberated from ambition.”

Further, Goodman suggests that Gore is blazing a new trail for the baby-boomer generation. “Consider the new sixtysomethings,” she says…

…Next Friday, Hillary Clinton turns 60 and her second act is running for president. And when the new Harvard president, Drew Gilpin Faust, 60, met with her Bryn Mawr classmates last summer? Many were talking about leaving their “extreme jobs” just as she was installed in hers.

Baby boomers are the first generation that can look forward to such a lengthy and (fingers crossed) healthy stage of later life. They are as likely to be talking about what they want to do next as about where they want to retire. Never mind all those declarations that 60 is the new 40. In fact, 60 is the new 60.

For me, at age 60, it’s certainly not the case that I’m talking about retirement. As always, in my life, it’s about what to do next.

Not that the question of “what to do next” is, I hope, going to come up very soon (given that I’ve, just recently, totally changed my life yet again). It’s just that, like Gore, in losing, I seem to have found a new direction. Hopefully one that will sustain me for some time to come.

As I’ve written about before, I was forced to reconsider my life almost from the moment the Governor of Oregon dismissed the entire State Board of Higher Education on November 13, 2003. With that single act, after nine years as a policy-wonk type, I needed to find someplace else to land, something else to do. As with our former Vice President, who found a different ladder to climb after some time in the wilderness (how’s that for mixing metaphors?!), I too spent some years out there in the wild, trying to come to grips with the realities of loss and seeking to find a way to let go. Specifically, my path of soul-searching consisted of three years and two temporary jobs at different dysfunctional institutions. Although they took a high personal toll, the growth-providing experiences I had from 2004 to 2007 laid the foundation for finding my version of the “extreme job” …which ultimately came within a month of my 60th birthday.

Not that my current place is the be-all and end-all. Surely it isn’t. When I was recently providing an outline of my non-linear, wayward life to the young woman who now cuts my hair, she seemed genuinely curious about all those twists and turns. At one point, I disclosed that I had very few regrets, but that “if I had it all to do over again,” I might try to focus my life more on writing and photography. When she suggested that “it’s not too late…”, I balked. I indicated that I can write and do photography and pursue my current professional path: that changing directions entirely, at this point, might just take more energy than I have.

But, who knows? I don’t know how long I’ll live. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned thus far, it’s that you can never know what tomorrow will bring. As Ellen Goodman states, “…under the old compact, sixtysomethings were supposed to get out of the way and out of work. They were encouraged by financial incentives and prodded by discrimination. Now we are drawing blueprints for people who see themselves more as citizens than seniors.”

In all honesty, I don’t have any idea when the next fork in the road will present itself to me. For now, though, despite all those aches and pains, I am a citizen, not a senior.

If you come to a fork in the road, take it.
Yogi Berra

As far back as July 2006 I started talking about my aversion to noise, particularly the annoying cell-phone-user variety. I continually ask myself the question: where do I have to go, what, dear god, do I have to do, to get away from these inconsiderate, loudmouth assholes?

I’m sick. I’m tired. I’m totally frazzled with the “cell-phone voice” that seems to be everywhere. For example, say I’m in the local Starbucks (as I was just today), quietly sipping my cup of tea and reading a book, with the normal background hum of voices and activity. Then, a person a table or two away takes or makes a call, and before I even look up to confirm, I know that voice. Geez, it’s somebody talking on their damn phone. Of course it is. It’s happening all around us! Does she really think I care if she’s running late? Or that he’s hungover? Or that her sister is sick? Or that her husband-boyfriend-significant-other doesn’t “get” her? Or that his college won the big game yesterday? Or that, woe is me, the Dow lost 130 points last week? Or that she thinks “like, you know, whatever…”?

Tell me: how could I possibly give a rat’s ass?!

Well, I don’t.

But, enter: HOPE.

I recently discovered what I think is a “must-have” piece of modern technology: the cell-phone jammer. In a newspaper article last week entitled “Cell-Phone Jammers Can Zap All The Yap,” I learned of these wondrous little (often extremely small and portable) devices. I don’t need to go into how these things actually work, since, if you’re interested, you can read up on that yourself. Suffice it to say that, for not much money, you too can own a gadget that can zap the signal of cell phones in your immediate vicinity.

Think of yourself on a bus or commuter train, in the doctor’s waiting room, in the theatre, or, like me, in the coffee shop: and having actual control over the airspace! You just push a button and, whammo! …instant impotence (technologically speaking) for that useless, harebrained cell-phone user!

HA!

Of course, there happens to be a down side, as use of these miracle tools just happens to be against the law. Alas, cell-phone jamming is covered under the Communications Act of 1934, which prohibits us from “willfully or maliciously interfering with the radio communications of any station licensed or authorized” to operate. In fact, the “manufacture, importation, sale or offer for sale, including advertising, of devices designed to block or jam wireless transmissions is prohibited” as well.

Dang!

So, given this, of course I’m not advocating that you go out and buy one of these things. It just wouldn’t be right, would it? I would never, ever endorse any kind of illegal activity here on my website. That would be terrible of me!

So, how about if I suggest an alternative that IS totally legal?

It just so happens that I’ve discovered another way to start fighting back. I’ve become aware of a method that is neither illegal nor surreptitious, but, rather, totally above-board…and just may win the hearts and minds of those around you.

I suggest you go to the website introducing you to the (unfortunately fictional) Society for HandHeld Hushing (SHHH!). Once there, you will find a pdf file which you can download and print out that will furnish you with some little “business cards” you can cut up and hand to those loudmouths on cell phones.

Imagine yourself, if you will, handing a modestly-sized nicely-printed card to someone stating that:

The Rest of Us DON’T CARE What He Said To You.

or

The World Is A Noisy Place. You Aren’t Helping Things.

or

Just so you know: EVERYONE AROUND YOU IS BEING FORCED TO LISTEN TO YOUR CONVERSATION.

or

Dear Cell Phone User: We are aware that your ongoing conversation with (fill in the blank) is very important to you, but we thought you’d like to know that it doesn’t interest us in the least. In fact, your babbling disregard for others is more than a little annoying.

or, simply:

SHHH!

Sounds heavenly, doesn’t it? …the silence, that is.

Soundtrack Suggestion

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I’ve come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

(“The Sounds of Silence” – Simon & Garfunkel)