Ruminations on being 65 and my last magnum

Aweh Dear Ruminants and Groupies,

The bet

On Sunday, I turned 65, and as Nerine does, there was a lavish feast with friends and family. It’s what Nerine does best, and I love her for it. We drank the last magnum of Kanonkop Paul Sauer 2012 that I owned. I won six of these magnums in a bet I had with a former colleague from my corporate glory days. Not. I was being my usual cantankerous self. In 2012, the big cheeses had gone to an expensive mountain retreat and had announced an ambitious (and ridiculous) forecast of corporate glory by 2020. So when the messenger came down from the mountain with the tablets, I did not display the necessary reverence for the holy tablets but could not help dissolving into fits of inappropriate laughter.

The Wine

And so the bet was struck: six magnums of Kanonkop Paul Sauer. Unless you are a wine snob, what exactly is Kanonkop Paul Sauer 2012? A magnum of Kanonkop Paul Sauer 2012 occupies an interesting niche in the global wine hierarchy. It is not a First Growth Bordeaux, a cult Napa Cabernet, or something that causes hedge fund managers to spontaneously discuss terroir. At roughly R10,000 ($600), it is not a global trophy wine, but it is one of those bottles capable of making someone who spent ten times as much on Bordeaux feel mildly uncomfortable. The people who know, know.

One of my relatives asked why on earth I would spend R10,000 on a bottle of wine. I explained that I wouldn’t, because I regard the entire fine-wine ecosystem as a slightly absurd exercise in status signalling, scarcity theatre and collective self-deception. Then she asked why we were drinking it instead of selling it. Which was awkward, because there we were happily drinking the thing. The truth is, the concept of expensive wine is ridiculous. And yet the Kanonkop was undeniably excellent. I hope that makes sense.

The Number

Now let’s consider this whole 65 thing. Humans have an irresistible urge to sort themselves into categories, and 65 is apparently the age at which one officially becomes old. I know this because I am contractually required to retire for a second time at the end of this year. Whether I feel old is entirely irrelevant; a committee has spoken.

There are, of course, those who regard mandatory retirement ages as a form of ageism. In the United States, unlike South Africa, compulsory retirement is not permitted. This is often presented as evidence of a more enlightened society. Not so fast. Every policy choice has consequences. If you decide that age should never disqualify anyone from holding positions of enormous responsibility, you get what you asked for. Trump and Biden.

So, to my dearly beloved American readers: if you ever require a South African consultant to explain why mandatory retirement ages may occasionally serve a useful social purpose, I would be happy to assist. My fee is modest, and the evidence is currently wandering around in plain sight.

I always knew I was going to retire. I am one of those boring fuckers who actually planned for it financially. What I did not sign up for was getting old. Anyone over 60 who tells you they are not getting old is either delusional, lying, or some combination of the two.

The Retina

I could easily launch into a medical inventory of the various components now beginning to fail. Nothing is wrong enough to kill me yet, but very little works quite as well as it did twenty years ago. One of the many reminders was a detached retina that appeared for no particular reason, other than getting old.

“Why did this happen to me?” I asked the ophthalmic surgeon who had just lasered my retina back into place. “It happens,” he replied.

“Was it something I did? Diet? Exercise? Stress?”

“No.”

“So there is some identifiable risk factor?”

“No other than genetics.”

“What you’re telling me is that my retina simply decided to detach itself for no particular reason?”

“Pretty much.”

Apparently, that is one of the perks of getting older. Things just start happening. No lessons to be learned. No lifestyle adjustments to be made. No moral failing to correct. Your body simply begins rolling dice behind your back. The surgeon’s advice, stripped of its clinical language, amounted to: you’re getting old; suck it up.

The Problem

A mature bottle of wine is regarded as a treasure. A 65-year-old half-baked academic is handed retirement paperwork. One is praised for its complexity, character and depth. The other is quietly removed from the balance sheet. Apparently, the ideal ageing trajectory is to spend your life as a bottle of Kanonkop.”

Until next time

Bruce