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.”