Getting Older
On the eve of yet another November birthday, my thoughts have
turned to getting older. On this day I haven’t calculated my precise age, but I
know for certain that I am not old. I have decided that no matter which
birthday I face, I will not be old. At most, I’ll accept getting older, but not
old. In our modern culture, being old is thought to mean being forgetful,
losing some of one’s capabilities both mental and physical, expecting daily
pain, and, did I mention about being forgetful? None of that for me, or so I’d
like to believe. How can I be old when I think like I’m a teen-ager worrying
about pimples?
I wasn’t even sure that I was getting older until I realized
that I could correctly answer every Facebook question “What is this antique?”
Ha. I knew them all. It seemed like only yesterday I was using that very thing
in the garage, even though those younger Facebookers didn’t know what it was or
what it was used for. It is easy to be callous about younger folks when you
realize how little they know and what lies ahead for them.
The problem in our society is that the younger set doesn’t
understand about aging. They haven’t experienced stiff joints, wrinkles, losing
hair, poor eyesight, and a few of the other surprises that come with aging.
Hell, they don’t even know about being hard of hearing. And did I mention being
forgetful?
Aging has been problematic for me since I have lied about my
age most of my life. It started when I was about three fingers. Whenever I was
asked, “how old are you?” I always stuck four fingers in the air ‘cause it was easier,
and it always provoked a laugh from those who knew better. That was the
beginning of my life-long affair of shading the truth about aging.
I was still four fingers when I learned that my classmates
in First Grade were all older than me. I was the youngest because my parents had
sent me to Kindergarten at age four. (They must have been tired of my
shenanigans and willing to foist me off on some unsuspecting teacher). Most of
my classmates were already whole hand but my November birthday put me in both Kindergarten
and the first several months of First Grade while I was just four fingers.
I remember my first experience with aging in First Grade when
we studied the clock with its big hand and little hand chugging around and
ticking off each passing moment. It took a long time, but I finally grasped the
idea that age is a measure of time just like a clock measures time. I didn’t
like learning about age and time from the clock. I preferred to measure time by
the drip, drip, drip of passing days that ultimately led to Saturday and an
entire day of playing with friends until the street lights came on. That was my
world then and it hasn’t changed all that much even now since I’m still
addicted to playing.
It didn’t feel right that I was the youngest kid in my class.
I solved the problem when I learned to round up and advance my age. I
equivocated the moral ambiguity of giving an inflated age by arguing that
nobody wanted to hear I was seven years, eight months, one week and two days
old. Much easier to simply round up and say that I was eight. I used that
strategy for several years to gain equal status with my older pals and
classmates.
This rounding up lie worked pretty well until I finished high
school at age 17. All my friends were 18 and some had already begun doing
things like getting married and taking on full-time, lifetime type jobs. Most
of these things required completion of legal documents and honest data about
age and therefore, for a brief period I was careful about stating my correct
age. I got back into age-lying around age twenty. Actually, I don’t ever
remember being twenty. I think I jumped from age 19 to 21, equivocating once
again by using the round-up method to extreme given the obvious benefits of
being 21.
By the time of college graduation and reaching the actual
age of 21, I changed to using only my actual age, in other words, no rounding
up since I became burdened with responsibilities that seemed to require honest
age. That lasted for the next 20 years or so. Rounding up had lost its allure
and I had no logical reason for inflating or deflating my age. It was only
after I had become a gray beard that I once again fell into the habit of being
flexible about my age if it seemed appropriate. The difference this time was
that being younger offered more than being older. Some may consider my revised
behavior duplicitous, but it seemed only fair to me. After all, had I not been
adjudged to have been older than my actual years for the first 20? It seemed
only fair to even the score a bit and lower my age to make everything come out
about even. Although I might have been 49 years, eleven months and three weeks
old, if the occasion seemed appropriate, I reported my age as 49, not 50. This
was especially useful when I was the most senior person in my work group of
engineers. Sometimes, I may have even reported that I was in my ‘late forties,’
not 49 and certainly not ‘almost 50.’
Now, here I am on the eve of a 75th birthday. Inflation
or deflation of my age is a distant memory. Instead, I am more likely to yield
an incorrect answer to the age question, not because I want to be either
younger or older, but because I have forgotten –did I mention this seems to be
one of the common foibles of aging. I am now more careful about my age since I
certainly don’t want to lose a year.
I choose to think of my birthdays not as a penalty but as an
award for having ACHIEVED an advanced age; having avoided the troublesome hand
of fate that sometimes hits you in the face for no apparent reason. Sure, I’ve
lost a step or two in the life’s race as indicated by a notable lack of hair,
the recent acquisition of hearing aids, and other changes not worth mentioning.
And next month, just as my birthday rolls around, I expect to be the proud
owner of a new hip, this one made from metal and hopefully the source of a
smoother jaunt across the pickleball court and down the road on foot or on
skis. I also expect it to alleviate a little discomfort that has followed me
around for the last two or three years.
Regular discomfort seems to be a common feature of aging. My
similar-aged friends and I routinely discuss our aches and pains at our morning
coffee. Each of the old coffee drinkers has one or more issues that he can
discuss at length. One of my friends complains regularly about his periodic
gastric issues. He summed it up yesterday with a pithy announcement following a
detailed dissertation about his bowel problems. “Everything I eat turns to
shit,” he said.
I expect he and my other older buddies are not much
different than me and other oldsters around the North Woods. We take our aging
seriously, and we try to make each day count, although sometimes we can’t
remember just which birthday we are celebrating and when the next sock hop will
be announced. They still have those, don’t they?
