Forty five years old. Forty five goddamn years old, and still able to facetiously fret that his final playing days are behind him. There are people that he easily could have fathered that actually are sweating profusely while anxiously tapping their fingers near the phone, and his old ass is probably doing laps in a weighted wetsuit while knowing his immediate future isn't even close to in question. Most men his age are fondly reminiscing (i.e. exaggerating) their glory years, and Jaromir Jagr basically gets to decide when he wants his to end.
Seriously, I don't know when he is going to hang them up for good, but I'm pretty sure that it will be on his own volition seeing as he'll die before reaching an age where he can be easily stripped of the puck. The league is literally trying to put down his career with a style that is more-than-less predicated on speed, and the old dog is still using his asinine work ethic and veteran savvy to be productive despite having no new tricks. He may not have anymore 60 point seasons in him, but he's still got enough je ne sais quoi (fancy term for an ass that could pressurize the contents of a shitty kid's Christmas stocking into an engagement ring) to bait a team into getting him on the line and paying him to fish around the offensive zone with his dynamite dumper. There's no shortage of talented kids that weren't even born when he entered the NHL that can't say the same.