Dear Human,
We are pleased to inform you that after several decades of constant (if often subpar) operation, you have finally crossed the threshold from “garage sale junk” to “retro memorabilia.” Your body is no longer considered a worn-out, high-mileage clunker, but a heritage artifact in fair to salvageable condition.
Congratulations on this status upgrade. But it’s important not to rest on those laurels—the leaves are prickly and offer no lumbar support for your delicate relic of a body. Now that you are a vintage human, you’ll need to elevate your care routine from basic annual maintenance to an expensive hobby that takes up most of the space in your house and on your calendar.
First, revamp your fueling system. Once upon a time, your diet consisted of leftover pizza from student club meetings and jungle juice from Delta Chi parties. Try that now and you’ll be vomiting up internal organs. Also out of the question: lactose, gluten, sulfites, fried foods, coffee after 11 a.m., and any curry spicier than “extra mild.” Just as a World War II P-51 Mustang only takes leaded 100-octane avgas, you’ll need to fibermaxx with asparagus smoothies from here on out. The fumes from both smell awful, but this is what’s required to avoid catastrophic engine failure.
Remember: Your warranty has long since expired, and spare parts are tough to find, so you must remain vigilant about upkeep. Watch out for leaks.
The problem is that Homo sapiens bodies, like 1950s-era vinyl dolls, were never built to last this long. Evolution designed you to have two or three solid decades of hunting-gathering before dying in hand-to-paw combat with a dire wolf. In your forties and beyond, exposure to the elements in the form of mowing your lawn or shoveling snow out of your driveway can result in rapid deterioration of your vintage frame. If you want to extend your useful life and look as well-preserved as those collectible Barbies your grandmother used to display, you, too, will need to avoid UV rays and be stored in a smoke-free, climate-controlled environment at all times.
Like Depression-era glassware, you should be kept out of reach of children. Not just because of your general frailty, but also because your body is full of arsenic, uranium, and other toxic chemicals you were regularly exposed to before the existence of the EPA.
Treat your body the way you’d treat heirloom furniture thrifted from a flea market. Use oils for creaky joints, a mild shampoo for washing, and moisturizer cream to prevent cracks in the leather. If you decide to undergo a more drastic restoration project to regain your youthful appearance, go light on the furniture wax and/or Botox. You don’t want to turn yourself from a slightly scuffed midcentury classic into a brutalist nightmare with Mar-a-Lago face.
As an antique person, you should avoid activities that would stress your fragile parts. That means no more marathons, contact sports, or getting out of bed too fast. Take inspiration from other classic bodies like the 1927 Ford Model T. You can still go out for short excursions in good weather on well-paved streets, provided you’ve gone through your weekly checklist to ensure all major systems are still functioning properly. Just be prepared for gawking from other drivers on the road, who will loudly express incredulity at your continued existence and ask whether it’s safe for someone of your age to be out in public.
