Local opinion: I share a birthday with former President Trump. Let me tell you about our aging

(With Apologies to Clark Hoyt, “I Share a Birthday With President Biden. Ask Me About Our Age,” The New York Times, July 10, 2024.)

Donald J. Trump and I were born on the same day — June 14, 1946. He in Queens, New York; I in Los Angeles, California. We might have enjoyed a moment sharing that, if we’d met. Which we haven’t. But we still have a lot in common.

First, we share our birthday with America’s flag. Flag Day was born a little earlier — June 14, 1777 — but we both love the flag. Donald likes to wrap himself in it; I like to watch it flying star-side up in my neighbor’s yard.

We have other things in common, too. One, we’re both slightly vain. We both color our gray hair blond. My hair could never attain the cantilever of Donald’s, but I tell you, I can understand Donald’s reluctance to subject it to rain commemorating U.S. WWI losers and suckers in France: Sodden gray-blond tresses flattened on one’s head are not a good look. Especially with cameras nearby.

Speaking of cameras, we both like to photogenically project rugged jaw strength. Donald proudly raises his head to reveal his Mt. Rushmore-worthy granite jaw. Now I have never confessed this before, but I actually had a chin implant a number of years ago. It was just a tiny one, mind, but it strengthened my jawline sufficiently to now be mug-shot worthy.

Dictator on Day OneOn dictatorship, I am actually one up on Donald. I’ve already done it. I was an adjunct college writing instructor.

No one better expresses unitary executive power than adjunct college writing instructors. Forget “Dictator on Day One”; think “Dictator on Every Day of the Academic Calendar.” Adjunct college writing instructors wield uncontested power.

Donald would have loved it.

As an adjunct college writing instructor, once you swear to uphold the sanctity of the syllabus, you can do whatever you want. There’re no “justices” overseeing your actions. There’s no pesky band of politicos threatening to wrench you from your smart board. You’re officially immune.

You want undocumented out of your classroom? Flunk all their early papers. They’ll disappear like vermin in the light. You like popularity? Promise easy As. Take the cute ones out for drinks. You want retribution? Denigrate the local high school teacher who insulted you. Fail her former students. If you’re an adjunct college writing instructor, they let you do it.

Of course, just because you can, as Joe has said, doesn’t mean you do.

Dictatorship could be fun while it lasts. The thing is, you’ve got to be on the top of your game for it to last.

Me, I was still near the top of my game when Donald and I were both 70. That’s the year I left adjunct college writing instructing to the next generation and Donald got launched as President.

Now, eight years later, here we are. He’s running again. Or maybe lurching.

What Was That Again?Yesterday I used the pronoun “she” for “he.” Twice. My husband called it gender dysphoria. What do you call it when you mistake Nikki Haley for Nancy Pelosi? Repeatedly? Or forget your wife’s name?

The aging brain … we Flag Day babies have it, and there’s no reversal. However entertained we might have been by Donald’s no-teleprompter meditation on marine mortality (though I’d have gone for the battery attack over the shark, as well), I shudder to imagine what catastrophe his increasingly senile narcissism could call down on our fragile democracy.

I agree with retired journalist and editor Clark Hoyt. We need an upper age limit on our elected and appointed government officials.

Realistically I would have no business teaching college students for the next four years. And Donald has no business being President of the United States either.