The 80’s called. They’re on their way to you, Mr. President

Mr. President, if you’re sick of people talking about your age, think about how I feel. You are only 79 years old. I’m 82, three years ahead of you. You’re still a kid, though it’s true that crossing the White House lawn, you walk like the Tin Woodman who needs a squirt of lubrication. Falling off the bike wasn’t pretty either. I would like you to remember that after 75 years, the best hope is enigmatic dignity – older statesman, grandfather knows better than anyone, Konrad Adenauer, that sort of thing. Think gravity. By the way, you need a new tailor. The suits are too tight. You are not 24 years old.

For your eyes only, I have prepared a reconnaissance report on the conditions you will encounter as you cross the mystical frontier of the 80s, into old age. Your timing, I must say, could be better. I note that you will turn 80 just 12 days after the midterm elections in November. Neither the historic anniversary nor the election results, I predict, will put your party in a celebratory mood.


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