60 is the new 59

When I began my sabbatical from writing Doofus Dad back in 2020, I was 54. The last post I wrote back then was called “Image is everything — even for moms and dads.” In it, I discuss the strange ways in which our view of ourselves changes over the years. That 2020 post still holds up, but now I’m viewing it through 60-year-old eyes.

For all of us Doofus Dads in the world, hitting 60 is a time to sit back (carefully, so we don’t tweak our backs) and reflect.

First, let’s consider the physical stuff. Starting at age 30, the turn of every new decade brings with it at least one exciting new omen of our impending demise. For many men, turning 30 means the premature migration of a previously full head of hair to various household plumbing. Up until then, the follicularly-cursed among us could convince ourselves that all that hair in the shower drain was normal, and more was coming in to replace it, like shark teeth.

But at around 30, pre-bald men each have their “Oh, sh**, it’s not coming back” moment. This isn’t a great moment. It’s like that moment in Breaking Bad when Hank realized that Walt, his brother-in-law, is actually the meth kingpin he’s been searching for.

Imagine Hank’s face. That’s what a 30-year-old’s face looks like when he realizes his hair ain’t coming back.

Didn’t see Breaking Bad? OK, imagine Luke Skywalker’s face when he realizes Darth Vader is his father. Use that face.

Turning 40 is interesting. It introduces many of the maladies we approach as short-term, fixable things, but are, in fact, becoming permanent defects in our once-pristine machine. A fair comparison would be my 2001 Ford F-150, which had an electrical glitch where the doors would spontaneously lock and unlock themselves. For more than 20 years, no mechanic could ever figure it out, just like I’ve never solved the fact that, upon turning 40, someone apparently inserted rusty nuts, bolts, and ball bearings into my lower back and neck without me noticing.

At 50, the nether-regions exams check in as pride checks out. These typically involve a wide variety of fingers and instruments being used in a … probing fashion, often accompanied by awkward jokes and questions about yesterday’s Bears/Packers game.

This doesn’t really help, but it’s a good try.

Fifty is the age after which everything must be “kept an eye on” by the medical establishment lest we spontaneously combust. Knees start hurting, eyes start failing, and the once-reliable metabolism — an internal furnace that, up ’til now, could incinerate DiGiorno pizzas, s’mores Pop-Tarts, and piles of homemade Christmas bark into harmless caloric ash — gets shut off with the abruptness of a gas stovetop. No negotiations, no “let’s talk about this first.” One day, God just turns it off.

But in a cruel joke, He fails to turn off the appetite knob. There’s a reason why men over 50 tend to wear their shirts untucked, as if that somehow camouflages their fat belly region and tricks women into thinking they’re actually fit but just choose to appear this way.

We’re sticking to our guns on this.

And then, we arrive at 60. Despite what some wiry, fashion-minded, scarf-wearing writer from “The New Yorker” or some other elitist mag may spew, 60 is not the new anything other than, perhaps, 59. Whereas in our 40s and 50s, we men got gym memberships and did CrossFit in a misguided attempt at a clock rewind, guys in their 60s become devoted to stretching, mainly because you can do it while lying on the floor. If something is the new something else, stretching is the new working out.

Wife: Did you work out today?
You: No. But I did stretch. It’s pretty much the same.

All of the same maladies from our 40s still exist, but new, disgusting ones seem to be added weekly. Barnacles, for example. When you’re young, handsome, and tan, it never occurs to you that in a few short decades, you will basically become a decommissioned battleship permanently tied up at port and requiring a team of scuba divers to periodically scrape barnacles off your cracked hull.

Your dermatologist is the scuba diver in this analogy, in case you missed it.

Other weird words come into play, too. You’ve got your plantar fasciitis (feet). And Dupuytren’s cord (hands). And vitreous floaters (eyes). And other medical conditions with names that sound like monsters from The Lord of the Rings. This is the stuff your grandpa had back when you were cruising town, listening to Tears for Fears, and buying Seagram’s wine coolers with a fake ID.

But now it’s your turn.

Marking 60 years on Earth is not for wimps. For many of us, 60 is the age at which we begin losing the people we love at an alarming rate. Holidays and class reunions are not the same, and phone calls from family members tend to elicit a sense of dread. There is a definite sense that the Old Guard is gone, and your generation has moved up to the front of the line.

I’ve lost both of my parents since February of 2025, and I know that many of you have experienced the same. Aside from the obvious grief, it’s a strange sensation to know that you are an orphan in the world, and that it is finally time to step up and face the music. With living parents, you’re allowed to still be a kid, to some extent. Without them, your adult ticket has officially been punched.

Who would’ve thought that adulthood begins at 60?

The entire modern world seems to know you’ve hit this age, and I guess this shouldn’t surprise us, since Facebook announces it to everyone. Today’s media won’t let you forget it, either. If you are a man of at least 60, you watch TV, and you use social media, any time spent with electronic screens represents a full-on barrage of ED (erectile dysfunction) medicine ads and life insurance commercials.

Nothing else. That’s it. This is what your world has been reduced to, thanks to the strange magic of internet algorithms: knockin’ boots and death.

It’s as if the universe is suggesting that we have marathon nookie to the point at which we keel over dead while simultaneously ensuring that our family is well-covered and can maintain a certain lifestyle long after their sex-mad patriarch has kicked off.

Sure, there could be worse ways to go, but that’s beside the point.

There’s a certain bit of irony involved here, too, if I’m being honest. Of the roughly 2.1 million 60-year-old men living in the U.S. right now, I’d say around 2,099,000 of them aren’t exactly what most women would find “hot” or “sexy” or even “not entirely offensive.” Ear hair and coffee breath don’t tend to inspire lust within the feminine libido, in my experience.

No offense meant, fellas. We are fine people — upstanding, caring, God-fearing, hardworking Peepaws. We can fix the toilet, replace a weed-eater string, and impart wisdom to our grown children and grandkids while whipping up a delicious crockpot dish. We can even play 18 mediocre-to-disastrous holes of golf when we really should’ve stopped at 9, and stay mostly awake through another lame, three-hour-long superhero movie.

But folks, Brad Pitt we are not.

If TV and social commercials are any indication, though, 60-year-old dudes are practically stunt doubles from the movie “Caligula,” and our equipment must be tuned up and ready to operate on a moment’s notice. (Or perhaps, 30 minutes to an hour’s notice.)

There seems to be a disconnect somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong — there are some good things about turning 60, I’ve heard. Like, for example, Social Security becomes available then.

Oh, wait, that kicks in at 62.

Never mind.