Suddenly you are old.
Yes, it happens that quickly. One minute you are grinding and gnashing your way through life: that long battle to find a place in the world for your ideals and skills; too many years working for idiots; the quest for love, money and an affordable apartment; the confusion of choices made by raging hormones; consequently, a marriage you foolishly thought would last forever; the unprepared task of raising kids; an even chance of divorce, then recovery and maybe a second (or third!) marriage with even slimmer odds of success; and the care of your parents as they depart this world for the next, where they await your imminent arrival.
Then one day, out of nowhere, when you should have expected it, but you didn’t, you click on an online application that requires you to reveal your birthday, and you have to scroll through six decades to finally arrive at the correct year. In my case, 1955.
Yes, folks, that’s exactly how it works. Congratulations, mate: Where once you were the youngest among just about everyone in your orbit, now you are older than the last man to occupy the White House for two terms!
The good news about your sixth decade can be boiled down to these words: Medicare and Social Security. Your entitlements await, well, until the midterm elections. Oh sure, you will receive a few additional senior discounts tossed in as charitable afterthoughts, and although you didn’t ask for it, the monthly AARP magazine that seems to feature Goldie Hawn on every other cover, a publication chock-full of ads to hasten, er, ease your transition into old age.
The bad news? Let me put it this way. Let’s imagine your next two decades. Picture our solar system. It’s infinite, dark and filled with jagged rocks flying unpredictably through space. The future beckons.
But let us ignore those obvious negatives and contemplate another one: how the passage of time suddenly gallops and compresses as we age. For example, I still think 2012 was a couple of years ago instead of a decade ago. As I write this it is late March, but Thanksgiving and Christmas feel just around the corner.
My average day has slowed considerably. Yet it flies by. Even naps are too short. Experts say that we need to parrot our childhood, when each day felt like an eternity or, in my case, the months spent in Chicago Public Schools that felt like a prison sentence. As kids, we were stimulated as we learned new and exciting things, like how to torch ants with a magnifying glass and how to shoot spitballs using hollowed-out Bic pens.
Now, as seniors, those same aging experts suggest that between naps and doctor visits, we should be spontaneous and introduce novelty into our lives. Meet new people (ugh), cook a dinner without using a microwave or learn to speak Hindi. New experiences are more memorable to our aging and inflexible neurons, and, according to neuroscientist Patricia Costello, as quoted in an NBC Today article
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, “How can we stop that feeling of things going too fast, of missing out on our own lives? It comes back to learning new things. … Introducing novelty into your life when you can will make the memories stand out and stretch time in a way.”I’m exhausted just thinking about all that spontaneity, but I get Costello’s point.
Speaking of memory, mine has devolved. I have lived in nine states, and up until my mid-30s, I could still tell you each and every domicile in which I lived, the years I resided there and how much rent I paid. At the moment, I cannot tell you where I was two days ago. Sometimes, toward the end of a shower, I cannot recall if I actually washed my hair.
Finally, can we agree that longevity is overrated? Experts crow how everyone will soon be able to live to be 100 and beyond, as if this should be a goal. Have these experts ever conversed with a centenarian? They likely will say that reaching the century mark is no picnic when your joints are frozen, your eyesight is limited if not gone, your hearing is limited to voices in your head, and your impatient children — in their 70s and 80s and looking more like your siblings than your offspring — have given up on benefiting from any inheritance and, instead, insist that you take up smoking and ski jumping. No thanks. When it comes to years, I will opt for quality instead of quantity.
For those of you still in your prime, I hope this little preview of what lies ahead helps you plan for your golden years. And for those of you born in the 1950s, don’t fret. Although the next years will be filled with trials, tribulations and expensive hearing aids, they will fly right by. In fact, you might not even remember them.
Stephen J. Lyons is the author of five books of essays and journalism. His most recent book is “West of East.”
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