As of the moment this gets posted, I am 71 years old.

I can’t comprehend being 71. I remember being 17. It doesn’t seem that long ago.

Being 71 is something I never imagined. When I was pining for some young woman, when I got bored in a Sociology class, when I played second base in my town’s youth baseball league, I couldn’t foresee the world where I am now looking back on all those things and more.

There are lots of things not good about being 71. I go back to knee rehab Monday. My diabetes prevents me from scarfing a genuine toasted sesame bagel with a schmear of olive pimento cream cheese. I’ve seen Trump get elected president – not once, but twice, once after he tried to stage a coup after he lost,

But there are pluses. There are descriptions I can apply to myself that I would have had a difficult time justifying in my youth. I call them entitlements because I feel as though I’Ve earned them.

CURMUDGEON 

I’ve aspired to curmudgeondom ever since I started working as a wire service writer.

One of my mentors was Charles J. Morey. He was a phenomenal broadcast sports writer for the Associated Press. He was nearing retirement age when I was hired in 1977. 

His talent – writing simple, clear, declarative sentences that someone could read on the radio with ease. That he was able to string them together with wit and charm made him great.

But Charlie seems very forbidding when I met him at age 22. I’d get to work at 4 and he would sitting at his desk, arms crossed, waiting for his replacement. He was perpetually cranky and full of invective, particularly about the management of the organization. 

He was never, ever afraid to express his views out loud. 

My managers told me that I should try to be as good as writer as he was. But they also said you don’t want to share his personality. 

They got it wrong.

I loved the idea of being this inscrutable old man who passes down proclamations as if residing on Mount Olympus. And I loved the idea of making people think twice before bringing up a stupid idea.

I’d like to think that, with the passing of time, I’ve ascended to Mount Curmudgeon. And once my time among the mortals is past, Charlie is waiting for me with an Irish whiskey, arms crossed in the corner of a room, with my empty chair next to him.

CUT-RATE

A year before I turned 65, I went into New York to have a drink with a former colleague. On the way down, I stopped at the New-York (the hyphen isn’t a typo) Historical Society. If I waited a year, it would have cost me $10 less.

I revel in senior discounts. I pay half-price for the subway and commuter rail. I pay lower prices to get into museums. I bought a Senior Pass for National Parks just before Trump screwed them up and didn’t pay to visit Joshua Tree, Haleakala and Sagamore Hill. I get 10% off every time I go to the local supermarket. 

It might seem silly to those of you paying the full price for everything. But it’s a small pleasure that makes me thing I’ve got something that those of you who aren’t 65 or 71 don’t. 

Of course, there is one drawback: I don’t ever get questioned about whether I’m entitled to a senior discount. 

I’m reminded of the time my 72-year-old grandmother visited my parents, taking a bus from Queens to the North Shore of Long Island. She was indignant. She hadn’t said anything, but the driver charged her the senior fare.

“How did he know I qualified for it?,” she scowled, believing that it was hard to look at her and know she was 72.

I don’t get carded, either. That must mean I look every bit of my 71 years. 

Great. 

CONSEQUENCE

When I was young, I wanted to be famous. I originally sought a career as a TV reporter, thinking the fame I’d attain would garner respect I didn’t get a lot of as a heavy kid in the suburbs. 

That didn’t happen. 

Would it have been cool to be a household name? I’m not sure. I have friends and family who have attained measurable success – I can find them on Wikipedia – and they seem happy and grounded. Some sought the limelight, some didn’t. 

But sometimes I wonder if fame is an opiate. People can’t handle the pressure or the adoration. They turn to ways to numb the feeling – alcohol, drugs, abusive behavior, infidelity, violence.

So I haven’t attained celebrity. And I don’t feel as though as I’m missing anything. 

Because I believe I’ve attained consequence instead.

Consequence is contributing to your world. It’s having people seek your advice and respect your opinion. It’s gaining from the experience and wisdom of others. It’s sharing a honest laugh with a few good friends and your family. 

It’s helping to bring two great kids – the most fun people I know – into the world and sharing their triumphs and occasional setbacks. It’s spending my days with someone I love who seeks my counsel as she wrestles with her own efforts at making a mark.

I couldn’t imagine consequence when I ambled home from high school or drove from my summer job at a tire store. But I also couldn’t imagine cellphones, streaming TV and air fryers, either. 

I’ll take it. And, betraying my curmudgeon aspirations, gladly.