Written by Roger Kovack

It's closet cleaning time. Well, it never really is closet cleaning time around my house until there just isn't anything better to do.

Life has come to a stand still. Everything that can be read has been read and nothing that needs to be written is just leaping from my hand to the page. TV is for people that don't mind it and I'm not one of those people. So that leaves closet cleaning. Practical, mindless and eternally subject to procrastination.

But its not that easy for me and the problem always ends up dealing with whatever "old" means. Take for instance these old sweaters. I picked them out of the free box probably ten years ago. I wore them until they were ragged. I like them and they're old.

So that means I can just throw them away? Now wait a minute. I'm old too. Does than mean I'm just as disposable as these old sweaters? Somehow that seems cruel and uncaring.

Yet keeping a closet full of clothes I'll never wear again could be seen by some as an early sign of creeping senility. Or at least a pretty solid indicator of old fuddy-duddy-ness. So now it comes down to whether I want to keep my old clothes as a defense against the disposable "if it's old it goes" society.

"Do you remember the time when we cleaned out you mother's closet," my wife asked.

Ooh. A stake through the heart. Senility is about to be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. Without losing a stride, I reach behind the shelves where there are three brand new, not old and previously used, very large moving cartons. With tape gun poised like John Wayne taking a last stand and knowing that this moment is about as important as that scene in Iwo Jima, I immediately start cramming the sweaters and anything else in reach into the box.

I suggest you do the same.

Edit: After reading this blog, she asked, "So how long are those boxes going to stay in the garage?"

Written by Roger Kovack

I am an older member of the baby boom generation so I got the full ration of dissent as a youth. In the dissent department, one of the biggies was don\'t trust anyone over 30. Somehow people became evil after turning 30 and joined the establishment as if a body snatching had happened. It was clearly hopeless and irreversible.

Of course when we turned 30 life just went on and maybe we learned to be proud of getting to that age and at least I, for one, didn\'t think I\'d sold out to the establishment. After all, I still harbored a strong hatred for station wagons and washers and dryers. To me, those were the milestones of becoming establishment so I steadfastly trudged down to the laundromat in my British sports car for decades to come.

Perhaps, though, not trusting anyone over 30 started a sinister progression of milestones simply based on getting to an age that is a round number. Forty was a nasty birthday for me. I was so shocked and disheartened about turning 40 that I arranged to leave the continent for my birthday. Well, I didn\'t get too far. Just 22 miles offshore in the most humiliating of circumstances for a self ascribed hippie. I took off as a crew member in a yacht race to Catalina Island of the coast of Southern California. What a dissenting youth is doing in yacht racing is yet another story but the point is I didn\'t want to admit I was getting older and I never mentioned a word about my birthday among the folks on that boat.

These days there are a new set of milestones that aren\'t based on round numbers. It\'s called \'Senior Citizen\'. But just what age does that mean exactly? Never mind that it amounts to token brownie points and little else. Finally, last night at a local perfomance, the floating age of senior citizen, is that 52 or 65, came to a final roost.

"We don\'t have a specific age for senior citizen here," said the purple and okra dressed woman with a surprisingly full head of thick hair down to her waist. "You have to decide for yourself if you are senior enough or not."

My natural response was that I was slapped in the face for even bringing up the question. Certainly anyone looking at my blotched skin, silver beard and almost no hair at all would know that I\'m completely over the hill and just being an idiot for even asking what the age of senior citizen was. But maybe I was caught again in being way too self conscious about my antiquity and I could quickly recover in front of this charming woman. After all this was only going to cost me $3.00 instant penalty for a little white lie.

"Oh, I guess I haven\'t quite gotten there yet," I said with the meekness of someone that isn\'t telling the truth and knows it.

But I got away with it. I got away with being officially young and all it cost was the senior citizen brownie point. I got away with skipping around the senior citizen milestone.

Or did I?