Getting Old, Staying Humble

A mere seven days from now, I shall have my last birthday as a “young-old” person, one of three categories of “old” described in some study or another. The other stages of aging are “middle-old” and “oldest-old.”

And I thought turning 49 would unhinge me.

But I do take some comfort knowing that come 2018 I’ll be advancing, if I’m lucky, into the middle stage. The word “middle” seems sort of benign, especially as it lacks that silly “est” tacked onto “old” in the third stage, the one that takes us from 85 to, well, eternity.

Now all this dancing around the singular “old” is, of course, a function of how the Boomers came along and changed our ideas about what it means to age: they are simply living longer and in better health than any generation before them. 

But all of these numbers mean zip to one’s singular self, no matter which generation she is a member of.

All I know is that next week I will turn 74, at which point I will have lived 24 years longer than my mother and 21 years less than my father. Trying to guess where I might fall between those extremes—a span of 45 years—is quite fruitless, of course, and so, freed from the effort, I’m just doing my best to live each day as fully as I can.

A mental exercise I do each morning is to imagine that that particular day is my last. I do this while walking with my Starbucks grande through two local parks, staying as present as I can to the sights, sounds, and smells around me, especially to the trees, the flowers, the pond with the turtles, all those reminders that I am made of the same stuff.

What follows from this exercise is a review of how that day will actually unfold, at least the part I’m in charge of: Will I be doing the work that matters to me? Seeing the people that matter to me? Eating my favorite potato chips dipped in sour cream? Having one of my favorite beers at my favorite local bar? And so on.

And if something comes up on my list that I’m not too crazy about, then I have to either not do that thing the next time around, e.g., not schedule a workshop that gets me home too late. Or, if it’s unavoidable—doing the laundry—find a way to reward myself for slogging through it. (Like maybe an extra helping of potato chips?)

But with the birthday drawing nigh, I’ve planned many days before, on, and after that will definitely pass the “last-day” litmus test: many delights to anticipate, such good times to enjoy and recall fondly. Oh, I really did good this time.

And then I remember that old saying, “We make plans, God laughs.”

“At The Crossroads Without A Name”

One of the best parts of writing in a library—the only place I seem able to do so—is that it's loaded with books. And, as Samuel Johnson once said, “[t]he greatest part of a writer's time is spent in reading, in order to write: a man [sic] will turn over half a library to make one book.”

So once in the library, and before I haul my Mac and backpack of writing files up the stairs—to the relatively quiet area—I browse the first floor stacks and pick out a book to take with me.

Now the book always has something to do with what I’m currently writing, usually an essay or three I hope to eventually publish. And so two days ago, I found and started reading Joan Chittister’s Following The Path: The Search for a Life of Passion, Purpose, and Joy. I’m not even sure why I chose it, except that I’ve read other of her books, and some of her articles, and find her both interesting and often provocative.

So on Tuesday, when it came time to stop writing and start reading, I opened the book to page 35 and read this: “What fills the heart with happiness, ironically enough, is not what we get out of the world; it’s what we put into it. Being about something worthwhile, spending our lives on something worth spending a life on is what, in the end, makes us happy.”

Now this is not news to me. After all, I’ve spent the last 30 years reading, writing, and teaching people how to write their personal stories. All of it has made me pretty damn happy, and has also felt worthwhile.

But for the last two years now—as I continue headlong into Act 3 of my long life—I’ve been in the midst of some kind of transition, one that could possibly take me back to graduate school, and with a different focus than either my BA in Psychology or MA in English Literature. What I’m considering—and I emphasize considering--is an MA in Social Justice.

Because once again it seems that everything old is new again. And so the fire in my old lady belly—a fire lit back in my twenties—is starting to flame again, tentatively, but also a bit urgently.

Because, as we know, there is no Act 4.

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NOTE: The title of this blog is taken from Joan Chittister’s introduction to her book mentioned above.

This book is meant to give someone in the process of making a life decision at any age—in early adulthood, at the point of middle-age change and later, when we find ourselves at the crossroads without a name—some ideas against which to pit their own minds, their own circumstances. Its purpose, as they wrestle with the process of trying to find and follow their own special call at this new stage of life, is to both provoke thinking and to clarify it. —Joan Chittister

Late to the Game

From almost all of the current aging “experts”—many of whom I’ve noticed are not particularly old—you learn the importance of staying mentally active and intellectually curious as you make your way through the stages of aging: from “young-old” (65-74) to “old” (75-84) to ”old-old” (85+). 

You may do this by continuing in the work that you love or finding a new vocation, even avocation, an enjoyable hobby that will get you off your comfy couch and into art, music, or dance classes. Not only are these activities designed to keep your brain busy, but also your social life, including the making of new friends.

Until recently, I believed that writing and teaching—both of which I love—did all of those things for me, including making new friends. And they do. But in addition, just this past summer, I’ve discovered a new and quite stimulating avocation: being a Cubs fan.

For starters, having to learn how baseball actually works has kept me both intellectually curious—where’d baseball even come from, who started it and why?—and mentally active, e.g., mastering certain crucial baseball terms like “wild card.”

As for making new friends as a Cubs fan, that’s really easy, especially when you regularly watch the games on big TVs at your favorite bar, a noisy, crowded bar with the volume on both the TVs and the crowd cranked up to "very loud."

Now, if over the months you’ve learned a thing or two about this sport and this bar, you know it’s important on game nights to arrive on time, then head straight for that section of the bar with the biggest TV screen, that special spot where you and your new friends always sit.

Just like in the TV sitcom “Cheers,” we all know each others’ names here, even each others’ drinks: I do mostly lite beers—and over ice—especially if I want to stay for the whole game. Charlie is a red wine fan; Bill, true to his Irish heritage, favors Guinness; and Paul slowly drinks his cocktails. Most important, we all watch the game, talking only during commercials, though grunts, growns, and shouts of “YES!” are permitted when needed.

To say I look forward to these evenings of shared excitement, laughs, joy, or anguish, depending on the score, is an understatement. Because, truth is, the shared bonhomie always sends me home smiling, no matter the score. And one more thing about me and my recently acquired friends: we are all in our 60’s and 70’s, and it’s clear that our shared avocation has kept us all vital, cognitively engaged, and well-preserved.

Just as the experts promised.

The Date-Oh-Sphere: An Update

So while I’m a whole week into the launching part, so far no actual dating has occurred.  Which is not to say that I haven’t been busy thinking, writing, even doing stuff in the direction of dating.

For instance, after seeing the disappointing results from the first match service—seven men had viewed my profile, though none has yet “messaged" me—I started to join another, even getting to the last page of the profile process—the payment page. This second service, in an attempt to woo me into showing them the money, has already sent me scores of potential matches, based, I guess, on the small number of their endless questions I’d so far managed to complete.

Which was not many. In fact, I have 18 remaining “unviewed questions” to answer—all part of the profile thingee—including my political views, favorite hot spots, and astrological sign.

You see the problem here?

And as for the first service, I did answer all of their stoopid questions, which may account for why those seven fellows slunk away after reading them. Truth is, no matter how much personal data these match services collect, the huge pool of matchees is, for me, way too broad and too deep. What I need is a service that focuses less on my age or education or “favorite hot spots,” and more on my life’s chief pre/occupation: being a writer.

Because for better or for worse, that more than anything defines me. Which is what I finally realized after my brief yet illuminating experience with those two services. In fact, when it did finally dawn on me, I googled “match services for writers and artists,” but, alas, nothing came up.

And so while not bailing entirely on the online approach, I’m now going to do what any decent writer does if s/he wants to get the story: leave the house, the laptop, the endless clicking, and go to those places, events, and gatherings where the story’s characters are most likely to be hanging out.

Doesn't that sound like way more fun?