We read it in the ARA (with our reading glasses, which we just lost and found). The dossierChallenges and policies in the age of longevity, published this Monday by CaixaBank Research, tells us that "to finance pensions it will be necessary to postpone the retirement age to 68 years." It seems that the fault lies with us, with the children of the baby boom, that not only are there too many of us to collect, but on top of that, when we reached the age of procreation, we didn't follow the example of our hardworking parents. My parents had six. I had one. Where are you going? In my childhood and adolescence, marked by the series Cone eight is enough (about the extended family of a widowed journalist, father of eight, living in Sacramento and making ends meet), we were often joked about, which we all picked up on as adults. "You're a oginet", they told you. It meant that your parents, poor, at the time without a cell phone, without Netflix, without heating, without cheap Japanese restaurants, had to spend the boredom and the cold in bed making love (hidden from their grandparents and the whole gang of children they already had). In the absence of condoms, the famous method of Dr. Ogino, which was based on abstaining the days close to ovulation and doing like rabbits the rest of the month. It was a method, of course, that failed more than an umbrella bought on the subway, and hence the children of the method that didn't work were called oginetes.
They can blame us for the problem, they can call us, contemptuously, boomers (it would be more logical "sons of" boomer"). I am willing to work more years, just because I have nostalgia for that dark time, certainly, but so bright, perhaps, of our parents.
