We have all heard it said that youth is wasted on the young. That may or may not be true. Though I’m not yet at an age where I’m appalled and offended by everything the “kids these days” do, I am often envious of their energy and carefree (usually) lives. I’m still young enough to admit that I am no longer that full of energy. I’m not so young though to believe the other adage, that one is only as old as they feel. That one is built on whatever passes for logic among con artists. Whoever forged this old saw on the anvil of mendacity clearly had the misfortune to not live past their thirties. I very often feel much older than my age and if “feel” was the key to how young I’m supposed to be, then some days I might be approaching ninety.
According to Stephen King, there are three ages of mankind: youth, middle age and “Jeez, you look great”. I think that's about as close to true as I can see from my vantage point. I've not quite reached fifty, but I'm getting there (we’re all getting somewhere). There are days I do not feel my age. There are days that I do. The former are still in the majority, the latter are coming from behind and closing the gap. More than ever before, I get sore in the bendy places, my energy levels approach empty and I feel like my limbs are filled with lead. Not every day, I hasten to add, but some days. The change is noticeable. There has been a marked increase from just ten years ago when I rarely had a day when I felt worn out or overdone. Ten years before that, I never had bad days unless I over-indulged or had the flu. These days, my physical frame is less flexible or springy, I notice that I tend to be a bit more grouchy. The weird aches, strange shooting pains, creaky joints and the weird forgetfulness that comes with the accumulated trivia of half a century likely contribute. I’m in middle age now and these things are part of the landscape.
The inventor of the adage above might have been clever to clarify that by “feel” they meant inside the brain. Even when I'm achy I feel pretty spry mentally. I'm not immune from the fog of busy days or emotionally charged weeks, of course, but I'm still able to function as if I am only half forgetful. To be honest, I have never been that great in the memory department. I have too many moments when I am flying on autopilot, listening to the music in my head; I am a walking daydream and that presents issues of obliviousness that can make it hard for me to pay attention or retain facts. During meetings facilitated by someone else, I’m the first to go glassy-eyed. This isn’t new for me. It may be one of those youthful intolerances that I retain from my school days.
There are parts of growing older that I really dread. I don’t want to wear my pants up under my armpits or drive a Cadillac the size of a battleship or careen around looking for the senior specials at diners that begin serving 40% off meals at 3 p.m. I’d like to try to remain as sharp and outwardly un-elderly as possible. In order to do this, I resist thinking about things in terms of ‘back in my day’ or calling other, younger men ‘young fella’ and, where possible, avoiding things like orthopedic shoes and double knit polyester suits.
I had a person no more than twenty years my senior call me “young man” recently. That used to bug me. Now, I'm grateful for the opportunity to have the compliment bestowed. I assume that, despite the copious white in my beard and hair, I still look younger than I imagine myself. I refuse to drown myself in beard or hair dye to hide from the inevitable. As our North Carolina state motto so eloquently points out, “it is better to be than to seem”. I have to fight against the rising derision I feel when I see a man in late middle age or approaching his elderly years with coal black hair and beard. Worse is the ill-concealed toupee. I will likely get thin on top, in the back. Long hair helps to cover that, but at some point I'll develop a solar panel back there. I'm not worried. I'll try to make it look good.
Age also seems to bring a steadiness that is absent in youth. Kids are impulsive and unaware of the consequences (most of the time) of their actions. This is by design, as our prefrontal cortex only solidifies when we reach our mid-twenties. I feel a little sturdier emotionally and generally. I’m much less apt to be temperamental and though I’m grouchier than ever before, I am not so easily pushed to fury. There’s no rush for me, either. I like to be prompt and I like to leave when it’s time, but Christmas comes soon enough and so do my birthdays and the days seem to slide by much faster, and so why look forward unnecessarily? Time will pass and so will I. Steadiness is key.
In recent years I have been learning to focus (if not fixate) on the moment. I try to remember that all we have is this instant. That helps, because how I am feeling in the moment often determines the kind of decisions I will make and how my day will turn out. There's not much I can do about tomorrow or yesterday. As my mother used to say, quoting the book of Matthew, “sufficient for the day is the evil thereof”. This is actually true. I'd go a step further and add that “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly up.” Living in the moment is a significant cure for the aging process, but it can also temper our understanding and patience with life's travails.
My mother passed away just after her 57th birthday. When she was my age, she had just shy of a decade to live but didn't know it. None of us know when our ticket will be punched. Although her loss was devastating for our family, it taught us that the current moment is what matters. I try to maintain my thinking in a way that I am reminded to be grateful to be here (on the right side of the meadow) and for all the good in my life. Life isn’t always easy, but at least I love and am loved.
If I have any doubts about my possible longevity, the children have told me that they believe I will live to be quite elderly. My grandmothers were both in their nineties. My maternal uncle who battled health issues all his life lived into his eighties, and my maternal great-aunt just passed this year at 109. Pops is in his eighties and still spry, and his elder sister (my good and deserving aunt) is a nonagenarian and is as regally beautiful and sharp witted as when she was my age. All good indicators but there is no guarantee. Without wishing to be morbid, I could be hit by a falling satellite this afternoon while raking leaves or struck by lightning during a rain delay at a local baseball game. It happens.
Intentionality helps when it comes to facing the inevitable final problem of age. I exercise regularly which helps with mental acuity and energy levels. I have learned the hard way that the days I don't feel like exercising are the days I absolutely need to exercise. I can still build muscle and increase my tolerance while decreasing my blood pressure (which is excellent). Eating well, taking time to enjoy those wonderful peaceful intervals between the hectic and frustrating parts of life are essential. A good strong cup of tea in a quiet part of the house, enjoying every silent minute that ticks by is a rare and wonderful rest.
Another positive of aging is that I am getting to have a bit of natural skepticism and a healthy amount of cynicism. Though I am hopeful for the future, I don't easily get roped into stupid ideologies or self-delusion about how things will be. We live in a world with a lot of bad ideas and credulous folks (and those who prey on them). My tolerance for stupid people is reaching low ebb as a result. It gets harder and harder for me to hide my total impatience for those who are certain about everything all the time and who are easily hoodwinked by the false gods of politics and religious belief. However, I care less about what people think and, through practice, I have found that rigorous honesty is always better but that thoughtful reflection before I speak is the best thing.
And yet, I merely point out what I have noticed in myself that I hope has come with some experience and a growing extended history. I don't know what I will face as the years come. Loss, disease, failures of the mind and body, the eventual indignity of age and the resumption of infant-like helplessness. Nothing can stop that except accidental death by falling space debris. A character on one of our favorite shows said “Life is short and death is sure.” True, but I always liked the Latin axiom, “Tempus fugit, Memento Mori.” Time flies. Remember death. I hope that, without being morbid, if I can just keep hold of the fact that I’m mortal and won’t be here forever, maybe it will help me remember to try to use my time wisely. To me, that seems doable and it takes the edge off the fear of the party ending.
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