“Be Who You Are at Every Age”

Random thoughts as I approach my fifty-eighth birthday.

Every now and then I’ll make a remark on Facebook referencing my age, which is old. The last time I did it I got this in response:

Who said we’re old? For shame. ‘Old’ is only a state of mind, a perception, a figment of our imagination. We might all be turning corners, but we’re still learning far greater truths. That ain’t old.

I don’t see any shame in being old. The shame is in dying young. Also, my prostate cancer and failing eyes, my slowness to heal from simple bruises, etc., aren’t figments of anyone’s imagination. Those are the metaphorical corners I’ve turned, all of them amplifying that Greatest Truth of Them All, which is entropy. Ordered systems fall to disorder. People and things wear out, break down, fall apart, rust, decay, rot. If you’re lucky, you live long enough to experience some things along the way.

This kitten will shed her cuteness to grow into a full grown cat before meeting whatever ends befall feral cats. If she’s lucky. It’s sad to contemplate, but a photo of my old self right now would be simply horrifying.

We’re all raging against the dying of the light. Some of us rage longer than others. I’m not merely resigned, I’m happy to be out of the mating game, that I no longer have to impress comely young maidens with my wit and charm, that I no longer have to jockey for Most Interesting Man in the Room status with other men, that I’ve done the marriage thing and my children are grown, etc. All I’ve got to do is what I’ve wanted to do all along, and that’s read stuff and write stuff. 

I’m old. Fifty-eight is two steps away from 60, and 60 is elderly. It’s already 23 years out from 35, which is when most people in the U.S. count as the beginning of middle-aged. I haven’t been middle-aged in a while. I’m old. I remember hearing The Beatles on A.M. radio when they were a working band. I saw the last episodes of the original Star Trek when it was on broadcast television. That’s half a century ago. Very last century, at that.

Aside from finishing the books I want to write, my hope is to maintain good health so I can see what happens in 2025, when whomever comes after Donald Trump takes office as President of the United States. We’re in a fascinating period of demographic, political, and cultural transition and I’m curious to see what’s next. I’m entertained as it is by everyone’s overreactions to the Punch ‘n’ Judy show that passes for political theater these days. It’s only going to get better.

I’d also like to live long enough to see at least one grandchild. And, no, you hysterical ninnies, I don’t fear for the future of my children or grandchildren, regardless of “climate change” or whatever popular phony eschatology is being peddled at the moment. As has been pointed out by others, if you’re here today, it’s because you’ve got ancestors who survived all the great catastrophes of history, from the last Ice Age to the Bronze Age Collapse to the Fall of Rome, the Great Mortality (a.k.a. the Black Death), the Hundred Years War, etc., etc. 

My children are fairly savvy, far more than I ever was. Barring the usual unfortunate accidents, they’ll find a way around whatever history throws at them.

Meanwhile, I relish what days I have, the sunrises and sunsets and phases of the moon I still can see. If I don’t pack my days with ceaseless activity it’s because I know nothing matters whether I do it or don’t. As my favorite quote from John Lennon goes, “Time you enjoy wasting isn’t wasted.”

I would like to finish this last novel, though. So, then....