RIVER CITY JOURNAL: IN LIFE'S UPHILL CLIMB, WHERE'S THE SUMMIT?

Each new year brings

another birthday, but

we're not over the hill

by a very long shot.

Today is my bride's birthday. I would be happy to tell you how old she is, but such revelations do not a happy home life make.

I would also be happy to tell you how old I am, but some of you with mathematical leanings would immediately strive to calculate my wife's age as well, based on social norms and other considerations. It is instinctive to do math in your head when someone tells you, for example, that a daughter is pregnant. Almost everyone immediately subtracts the due date from the wedding date, right?

It can be said with some degree of accuracy and confidence that neither my wife nor I are over the hill. We may be gaining on the slopes, but we haven't crossed the ridge by a long shot.

There is this mental picture in my mind that tells me we humans ought to look forward to reaching the summit of life, whenever that is. The view from the top of a lifetime, I suspect, is spectacular. For some, the scenery would be dotted with grandchildren, for instance.

We have two adult sons now, but their pursuits are in areas other than progeny. That leaves us looking lovingly at all the goodies suitable for grandchildren that we never could afford to give our own sons.

Here's one example: Recently we visited a state-run market in Illinois that sells the work of crafters and artisans from all over the state. One item that caught my eye was a wood rocking-giraffe whose long neck reached up almost to my full height. Both of us fell in love with the giraffe. Sometimes when we see things like that we momentarily consider purchasing them on what I call the grandparents futures market. You know, you buy things for nonexistent grandchildren to the point that your attic becomes a layaway storehouse for unborn descendants.

Just this week during one of the many meetings that dot the workplace landscape, someone suggested that a group of men in my age range were "middle-aged." I protested, saying there could be nothing worse than being identified as middle-aged. I said I would rather be considered young by the old and old by the young than to be lumped in a category of washed-up lifers.

I went on to explain that I consider "middle-aged" to be a derogatory appellation, one that infers a wasted lifetime with no significant identifying scars. Call me a grumpy editor, or call me bean-brained father, or call me a half-baked thinker, but at least give me some credit for trying. To be a middle-aged anything is a sign that one's life has reached a certain vegetative state in this cradle-to-grave pilgrimage. No thank you.

Given our uncertainty about potential grandparenthood, my wife and I have concocted a backup plan. We have watched the resurgence in the popularity of (ital) au pairs, (unital) the young women who move in with a family to take care of their children, run errands and do other light chores. Given the hectic lifestyles of the up-and-coming Generation Xers, we've decided a mature version of the (ital) au pair (unital) is ripe for the plucking. We would hire ourselves out to a busy executive couple striving to leverage some industry. We would be on-site grandparents, cooks, gardeners, chauffeurs and bedtime story-tellers.

We even have a name for this new occupation. We would call ourselves the (ital) old pair. (unital) What do you think?

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.