Now that I am in my 60th year, I find that my whole pathetic day-to-day existence is wrapped up in 30-something people (note: just as the 1960s ended in 1974 when Nixon resigned, so, in 2012, "30-something" means age 27 through 35). Let me count the ways: my 32-year-old son, the successful mystery novelist, bursts into uncontrollable laughter at our bimonthly luncheons at Veselka when I attempt to relate my geriatric problems..
