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Mr. President, if you’re sick of people talking about how old you are, think how I feel. You’re only 79. I’m 82—three years down the trail ahead of you. You’re still a kid, though it is true that, crossing the White House lawn, you walk like the Tin Woodman in need of a squirt of lubrication. Falling off the bike wasn’t a good look either. I wish you’d remember that after 75 the best hope is enigmatic dignity—elder statesman, grandfather knows best, Konrad Adenauer, that sort of thing. Think gravitas. By the way, you need a new tailor. The suits are too tight. You’re not 24.
For your eyes only, I have prepared a scouting report on conditions you will find when you cross over the mystic border of 80, into serious old age. Your timing, I must say, could be better. I note that you will turn 80 just 12 days after November’s midterm elections. Neither the landmark birthday nor the election results, I predict, will put your party in a mood to celebrate.
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