Meet the New Boss (looks familiar)

IN MID-JANUARY, the gavel of power will change hands in the U.S. Senate. Mitch McConnell, in a touching act of cross-party reconciliation, will reach across the aisle and forcefully pry the symbol of legislative authority from the desperate grip of Harry Reid. Although the outgoing majority leader said after the midterms, “I have been able to strike a compromise with my Republican colleagues, and I’m ready to do it again,” Reid later clarified that what he meant was the compromise he would strike would be across the knuckles.

After warding off repeated blows, however, McConnell will be the new leader of the Senate, a massive change in political power that will go virtually unnoticed to the public, since he and Reid are both grim-faced, elderly white men whose rare smiles cause parents to cover their children’s eyes and bring their pets indoors.

Indistinguishable in their sour demeanors, they are like brothers separated at birth: two joyless Caucasian babies muttering in their hospital cribs, already soured by the knowledge their lives will be spent in fruitless conflict, the only bright spot being they’ll have comfortable leather seating at work.

Both men are well into their seventh decade, with most of their adulthood spent in politics, another reminder that the true power of incumbency is simply outliving everybody else.

You would think that the many benefits of longevity would include a lifetime of wisdom but, for these two men, sitting long at the feast of reason is no guarantee of peckishness. (Sorry. My router is down and I’ve been reading 19th-century English literature instead of streaming videos of cute animals. It’s the baby kangaroos I miss the most.)

BUT SUCH IS the will of the public, that power be passed from one bitter old white guy to another, reflecting the primary demographic of last year’s midterms: namely, bitter old white guys. It was the worst voter turnout in 72 years, but these guys showed up in droves. (Or was it in pickups?)

I can comment on this without being accused of ageism because I, too, am an old white guy, with every reason to share the bitterness of my brethren: My teeth are long, and my memory is short, and it takes longer to pee. Plus, my memory is short. Most of the cast of Gilligan’s Island has passed away, leaving us castaways on our own island of increasing irrelevance. In a world of millennials, we are the centennials, our strength ebbing with every passing day.

We’ve expanded our belts but lowered our expectations. We get frequent checkups but can’t do a chin-up. We finally get a smart phone, but then sit on it by mistake and butt-dial a stranger, one whose life is more interesting than ours. And then he hangs up.

We struggle with the relentless pace of change. Even a public rest room, of all things, has become a cruel cacophony of unpredictability, with its motion-sensing faucets and spontaneous soap dispensers, not to mention the powerful air driers that roar like passing freight trains. We stand at the sink frozen with apprehension, afraid to move lest we set off another frightful hygienic device. If this is modernity, we want no part.

 So we drive to the nearest polling place and vote against it. (We drive slowly, as old people do, because nowadays you can’t even trust your airbag. Apparently, it may contain sharp bits of metal. You survive the crash but no longer photograph well.)

We cling to our one consolation, that the elderly are no longer tossed off the back of the sledge when the tribe moves to more-fertile lands (a marked disappointment to the wolf pack following a short distance behind).

ON THE PLUS side, we’re living much longer. Which perfectly suits our politicians, who stubbornly age in place, bickering endlessly and requiring constant and expensive medical care. Only when they are ready will they do the honorable thing and step aside for younger people with fresh energy and new ideas. Like, people in their late 60s.