You know what?  I want to work forever.

I do.

No, I mean it. 

I want to be 93, with big coke-bottle glasses and an out of style suit (because, come age 93, I don't expect to give a fuck), striding into my office.  Okay -- at 93, I probably won't stride much, but I'll do the best I can.  And I want to greet my many young colleagues, make old Jewish guy jokes as I wind my way to my desk, sit down at my holographic laptop (which will now be a hopeless relic compared to the Cornea Computers others will use), and blog for a bit.  Then I'll work the phones for awhile, trying to figure out what my next column will be.  Then I'll blog a bit more.  Work phones.  Have lunch with somebody interesting.  Go out with my wife to dinner.  Etc.

Yes, I want to work forever because what I want to do sounds like it'll be fun forever.  Maybe it won't be, of course, but David Broder is nearing 130 and he's still at it, so there seems to be a chance.  Now.  I would really not like to work forever if I was a tailor.  I wouldn't not enjoy trudging into the office each morning and, at 93, bending down to hem pants.  I would not enjoy standing up all day to adjust the merchandise.  I would much rather be sitting at home, acting the dirty old man towards my wife.

John Tierney, because he does the first job, has written a column addressed to all those lazy asses doing the second.  Those malingerers and loiterers who're checking out at 62, collecting reduced Social Security benefits, and hanging out with the grandkids.  And John Tierney, as with all the columnists who offer this suggestion, is tough for doing it.  He's taking on a sacred cow, saying what pols fear to say, going where lesser men wilt, speaking the hard truths to AARP's power. 

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