70 is Not the New 50

The year 2025 sounds so futuristic. From watching The Jetsons cartoon series as a child, I thought we would have our jet backpacks by now. My own relationship with technology is not as effortless as The Jetsons. On the occasion of my 70th birthday, Stan-the-Man treated me to a trip to France. The first day in Paris, jetlagged as I was, I promptly left my cell phone in a taxi. 

Thanks to technology, I could see the phone riding around in Paris from my laptop. Thanks to technology, I had the address of where my phone stayed overnight. Thanks to technology, it was impossible to have a conversation with a real human about any of this. You call the cab company and it’s Press 1 for this, Press 2 for that, in French, no less. The language barrier was nothing compared to the technology barrier. The hotel concierge was very helpful, inspired by seeing my cell phone at a particular address with her own eyes. She said the phone was an hour and a half from our hotel while parked overnight. I wasn’t giving up three hours in Paris for that trip. 

Alas, by day two, the concierge actually managed to talk to a human – a human who was trained not to improvise, just to read a set of procedures, and send a link to fill out a form. Welcome to the future: where people act like robots and robots act like people. 

Twenty years ago, Buzz editor Joni Hoffman asked me to write a column on turning 50. I was a little reluctant, thinking increasing age meant decreasing relevance. But I got over it. It turned into an age-defying piece called 50 is the New 30. We 50-year-olds had tossed aside our mother’s stockings and girdles, gloves with matching bag and shoes, and weekly trips to the beauty shop for our helmet hairdos. We were modern, by golly; wearing bell bottom jeans like our daughters while reminding them that we were the generation that invented them. Oprah Winfrey turned 50 the same year – 2004 – and was at the peak of her power and influence. We were Oprah. We set the scene and made the rules. That, at least, was my take at the time.

It occurs to me that I was in my 20s in the ’70s. Now, I’m in my 70s in the ’20s. I’m tired of trying to be younger than I am. I like myself better with each passing year. We are trained to think aging is bad. Yet when I ask my peers if they want to go back to younger years, I get a resounding no.

In Paris, I realized that all the information I needed for the trip was on Stan’s cell phone, and that he could be the picture-taker. A strange, relaxed feeling replaced my initial panic. I no longer had to worry about losing my cell phone. I just couldn’t lose Stan. 

I could actually see France through my own eyes, without the proxy lens inserted between me and reality. After two days in Paris, we boarded a small ship on the Seine River, headed for Normandy. 

Even before we entered that sacred ground of 9,000 graves iconically marked by white marble crosses interspersed with Jewish Stars of David, we encountered a countryside of private homes, many with flying flags. Armistice Day had come and gone since our arrival. Perhaps that was the reason. But what struck me was that several of the houses were flying two flags, one French and one American. 

It was the first of many moments I teared up. The French have not forgotten June 6, 1944, the day that American-led Allied forces faced a high probability of death as they landed on Omaha Beach. General Dwight Eisenhower led this mission called D-Day after two years of strategizing and planning. It didn’t go as planned so the troops had to improvise on the ground. Improvisation made all the difference. 

The United States, England, Canada, Australia, Belgium, France, Czechoslovakia, Poland, The Netherlands, Luxembourg, New Zealand, and Norway joined together in one gigantic “Oh no you don’t” to Hitler and his Nazi troops holding France hostage.

We were back in Paris for our last two days abroad. 

“If it wasn’t for you, we’d be speaking German,” said an appreciative cab driver. Me? For the first time in my 70 years, I was being personally thanked for something my country did before I was born. More tears.

From Montmartre, the highest peak in Paris, what lies below is ancient history, of wars, plagues, famines, beheadings, and all manner of suffering. But somehow beauty emerges in the human improvisation. Picasso said his art isn’t about war, but war is in his art. Beauty and pain seem to need each other’s company.

While looking ahead to 2025, it’s nice to remember where we’ve been for perspective, and to remember to always be ready to improvise. 

Editor’s note: See this article at thebuzzmagazines.com for a link to Cindy’s Jan. 2005 story, 50 is the New 30: The baby boomerang.