Thanks a lot. I was born in ’62.


I don’t obsess about age, and, as far as I know, I haven’t entered midlife crisis, which I define as a man of a certain age who buys a red sports car and runs off somewhere with a woman young enough to be his daughter.When Clint Eastwood wins an Oscar at age 74 and Paul Newman is still considered sexy at 80, I don’t lose sleep over advancing middle age.


Which means I’m not quite ready to be called an antique, if you please.


A collectible, maybe. Or, as defined in the same story, a “desirable” — though that wouldn’t apply to me, because the author of the article defined desirable as an object made after 1980.


Which, of course, would be almost the right age of the woman I could run off with if and when male midlife crisis hits.


Applying the term “antique” to one’s self comes with its share of good and bad connotations.


On the one hand, I suppose it wouldn’t be bad to have someone compliment me on my “patina,” which conjures up images of satiny, smooth elegance, not unlike the term “distinguished-looking.”


“Classic” might be another nice description — “Classic car” does sound nicer than “antique car” and “classic film” carries better weight than “old movie.” “Vintage” isn’t too bad, either, as in “vintage wine.” It also might be kind of cool to have some kind of Roman numeral after my name, as in when furniture is defined as “Louis XIV” or “Charles X.”


On the other hand, do I want to be categorized in such terms as “cracked,” “chipped” or “distressed?” Or, worse, “used?”


If I were an antique, what kind would I be? There are antiques that fit comfortably into one’s home and continue to enjoy active use, such as that broken-in leather chair that Grandfather relaxed in, reading his paper.


Or the beat-up piece of bric-a-brac that, on programs such as “Antiques Roadshow,” turn out to be worth $100,000, provoking delighted reactions of, “That old thing? That I kept in the attic?”


Then there is the high-maintenance type of antique — something roped off and guarded in a museum or, if in a home, is not to be touched. It wouldn’t be fun to be this sort of antique.


And there’s the kind of item that brings out people’s inner snob, as in “what a magnificent piece of Hepplewhite!” or elicits conversations involving phrases like “objet d’art.” I suppose it would be a compliment to be referred to as an “objet d’ art” — I think.


You see, to me, all the above terms don’t apply to circa -1963.


Eighteen-sixty-three, yes. But 1963, 1962, etc. — that’s not dark and dusty, that’s retro-cool, that’s sleek and shiny, as in NASA rockets and cars with tailfins. Does the name “Swinging Sixties” sound antique to you?


Nor to me. But if I had to be classified as an antique, I could settle for the term people use to describe something once new, now slightly worse for wear but not yet ready to be consigned to the curb for pickup:


It’s not “old,” it has “character.” blog comments powered by Disqus