“Okay Boomer,” said my teenaged granddaughter to her dad one day, teasing him with the verbal equivalent of an eye roll. Informed that an actual Boomer (me) was sitting next to her, she responded, “Yeah, but Gran’s cool. Well, not cool, but for her age she’s really cool.” Best. Compliment. Ever.

I’m not fond of the term Boomer, which makes me think of oil wells and large tubas, but I’d rather have that label than some others applied to my age group. Golden Ager implies the best of all possible eras, and that’s unlikely when so many phone calls with my peers include what one has dubbed the “organ recital”: a list of the new body-part doctors we’ve acquired and the ailments they’re treating. Nor do I like the expression older people. As a grammarian, I’m obliged to ask, “Older than whom?” and wait for someone to complete the comparison. I’m okay with being called elderly, though I’d prefer to be known as an elder, a term implying that I’ve learned something valuable during my years on the planet. I’m also okay with old. That’s just accurate.

The term I really hate is senior citizen. I’ve been a teacher my entire adult life. School is my default context. If I’m a senior, what am I graduating to?

I mention all this because today is my birthday. A complete complement of candles would burn down the house, but I’ll take a symbolic, celebratory few. That seems the right way to mark this step on the path. As for terminology, this sign gave me the answer:

Where there are Minors, there must be Majors. That’s me, folks. Major, cool-for-my-age Woods.