Getting Older

Age intrigues me. It is so relative. As a teenager, I couldn’t wait to be 20-something. When I was 20-
something, I thought life was endless. At 30-something, I convinced myself that I was as vibrant as I was
in my 20s, and a whole lot smarter. When I turned 40, the number didn’t make sense. I still had the
same playful mind of my youth. And I was still very active. Wasn’t I supposed to feel older? When I
reached 50, that’s when my body told me things were different.

No longer can I eat whatever I want to eat; not without consequences. No longer can I work all day in
the yard, or play 36 holes of golf, or run 10 miles, or drink heavily, without my body telling me about it
the next day. My mind still tells me I can compete in sports with the younger guys, but my body quickly
follows with, “Yes, but you will pay dearly for it.”

The older I get, the younger the number seems to me. When I was a kid, 50 was ancient. And 60? Well,
that was when the bus was heading toward the graveyard. And anything after 70 was off the bus and
several steps toward the grave. 80, that was borrowed time. And anything beyond 90, I couldn’t even
think that old. But now, 50 doesn’t feel all that different from 40 (except for the body aches). And 60?
Well, judging by the Viagra commercials, there is a healthy market segment of 60-somethings who are
enjoying a vibrant sex life. That is as good a measure of youth as any. I keep thinking that one day I will
actually feel my age. But it never seems to happen. Even when my body proclaims its years, my mind
makes a competing declaration.

Here’s what does get to me, though. As I pull away from the shore of my first half century and head for
the open seas of what has typically been called older adulthood, I am profoundly aware of having
reached the peak of my productive years. And that scares me. It scares me, because I imagine that I am
going to need to be productive long past 65. A generation ago, 65 was the goal. Work hard until you are
65, then slide gently into the sunset of life. Enjoy the rest of your years. Play golf. Spend time with the
grandchildren. Travel. Retirement was the reward. And 65 was the target.

With the seismic shift of the economy, and the subsequent loss of relative net worth, and the threat of
continuously sky-rocketing healthcare costs, and the imminent disappearance of social security, and the
lifestyle that my generation has enjoyed, largely on credit, 65 is no longer a realistic retirement goal for
a vast majority of people. Including me. I imagine that I will be working well into my 70s. And that’s ok
with me. Work doesn’t scare me. I like to work. I enjoy the stimulation. I just don’t know how much
productivity I have left in me. But I fear that I have spent more than I have left. And that thought never
entered my mind before. Never entered my mind – until now.

At 50, even if I work until I am 75, I am at the fulcrum, the tipping point, of my financial productivity.
And that is assuming I stay healthy and continue to find ways to be productive – and employed. I never
used to worry about employment. If something happened to my job, I rationalized, I could find another
job, or start a business. I was young. I was smart. I was capable. I could do whatever I wanted. I am still
smart. I am still capable. I feel young, but I am increasingly aware that I no longer fall within the
attractive demographic of the typical company. And my tolerance for risk has waned, so starting a new
venture is not nearly as enticing as it once was. Vulnerability has crept into my thinking about my
earning potential, and that does give me pause. It was not a factor before I turned 50. Now it’s a factor.
And I don’t like the way that feels. Was I more confident in my younger years? Maybe. Was I naïve?
Probably. But there’s no mistaking it, I am at a tipping point. And it is more unsettling than I expected it
to be.

When I was a kid, I was often asked, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” I had always
imagined I would have a career. What has unfolded, however, has been a series of careers, or jobs, or
ventures. Now it’s too late to think about making a career of anything. If it isn’t “made” by now, it isn’t
likely to be made at all. Or is that just fear creeping in? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

What I do know is this. I am standing on the shore of my productive years, preparing to set sail toward
that sunset that looms somewhere in the distance. Like Columbus at the edge of the Atlantic, I know
there is land out there somewhere. I am just not certain where it is or how long it will take me to find it.
I don’t know how many provisions I will need for the journey. When my dad was my age, he had already
cast the lines, trimmed the sails, and retired to the cabin below, certain that the vessel of his career
would carry him the rest of the way. I am still looking for the ship. And feeling the breath of time on my
face – no longer at my back – a prevailing wind blowing against me, not with me.

It is a strange thing – age. Intriguing, really. Once, I couldn’t get enough of it. Now I am wishing I had less
of it – wondering how I can cast off years, like unwanted ballast. It is all so relative.

Here is what I imagine. I imagine that I will recover a sense of myself one day. That my age will become
my friend once more. That I will adjust to this new point of reference and gain an appreciation for 50-
something, and regain the sense of adventure that I once had. Look forward to those years stretching in
front of me. I hope that’s true. I believe it can be true. It may require an act of will and imagination, but I
believe it can be true for me in this next half century of life, just as it was in the first. And who’s to say
there’s not another half century beyond this one. I refuse to believe that I am on the downward side of a
ride over which I have absolutely no control. “Over the hill” is a metaphor that has never made much
sense to me.

That’s the kind of thinking that leads people to make really bad decisions when they reach mid-life. I
understand the crisis that mid-life creates, in a way that I didn’t before turning 50. I just don’t
understand why so many men take it as license to be stupid. Unless they are feeling helpless –
powerless – and needing to exercise some control over their lives. But the stupid stuff just isn’t
necessary, even if it is tempting to some. And it certainly isn’t productive. Driving a new fast car, or
bedding some “other woman”, or whatever it is that a guy thinks is going to make things better, only
makes things worse, or at best, doesn’t change anything that really matters.

What matters is an honest sense of self. Finding ease with the person you are. At whatever age, or
stage, of life. Now, at 50, I have misplaced that sense of self. I’m looking for it. I wake up every morning
expecting to find it. But it has eluded me so far. Still, I wake up each day and wonder if today is the day,
will the tumblers fall into place today? Will the light come on? Will my sails fill, once more, with strong
navigable winds? Will I lurch forward, with the thrill of the adventure, certain that I am on course for
this next stretch of the journey, with all the provisions I need to get me to the next destination?