I am deeply grateful to Joe Biden. By defeating Donald Trump in 2020, he rescued this country from the continuing misrule of a dangerous grifter and serial liar, a man gripped by vindictiveness, lawlessness, and egomania.
By contrast, Biden presented himself, correctly, as a decent, experienced, and entirely normal politician. He may even have saved his country. Americans owe him a profound debt of respect and appreciation.
He also has no business running for president at age 80. I say that with considerable feeling, being in my late 60s and knowing that my 70s are not far off. I am as healthy as any late-middle-aged person (admittedly, I cringe at the word old, which tells you something right there) can be.
But I know that at this stage, I do not have the energy I had a decade ago. I forget more things, and if my body does not hurt when I wake up in the morning, a little voice in my head asks whether I am dead and do not yet know it.
Sixty-seven, in my view, is the new 66. It is an American conceit that aging can be concealed (botox), prevented (exercise! healthy eating!), or ameliorated (don’t wake Grandpa up from his nap!). That is rubbish. Plenty of studies (all available at the National Institutes of Health website) document the impact of aging on memory, mental acuity, endurance; on the production of cortisol and other hormones; and on the increased chances of dementia. Yes, exceptions exist, and we all know a few.
But betting on being the exception strikes me as a gamble against ever-lengthening odds and, as the proverb has it, the triumph of hope over experience.