Not Really A Dream
This week a subtle but permanent change in my life happened. It was as normal as waking up every day but as profound as looking at the face of God when you have spent your entire life as a happy Agnostic, occasional Atheist, never The True Believer. Very simply, I crossed an age. I transversed from upper middle age to 80 years. I went to bed and slept remarkably well. I was comfortable at 79 years, and when I opened my eyes, I was a real Octogenarian. But, something else seemed to have changed as well. I felt different.
Looking in the mirror, there does not seem to be a dramatic change in my appearance. Yes, I have wrinkles, and my skin looks as lined as it did when I was in my early seventies, but my eyes have changed. Not bloodshot, not yellow, not even glowing. My level of life experience hasn’t changed. My feelings toward my wife, my grown children, my dogs, all those important things have not changed. But something in the eyes is different.
Later, during the day, I was Skyping with a friend in Orlando, Florida, who had become an Octogenarian about three or four months ago; he began solidifying what was happening and how I was interpreting it. “Congratulations! You are now officially OLD. “
“Excuse me?” I stammered.
“Sorry, my man. You are now an official, dye in the wool Old Fart!”
The Vagaries of Time
Somehow, as a passenger in a car moving through time, I was at a party during my senior year at university. My date and I were engaged in a silly argument, and I remember telling her not to act like a childish little bitch. I can hear and feel the sound and sting of that slap today, just as when it happened. I think I mumbled an apology as I turned away, giving myself the time to absorb the pain and feelings a young man experiences after his first real angry slap from a woman. I could not have been more shocked or angry. Looking at it now, it is still hard to accept how angry his remarks made me feel. If we had been face to face I might well have broken his nose. I don’t think I have ever been so shocked to hear such an unwelcome fact.
Time is a disparate taskmaster. We see the manifestation of time in the mirror. But the accurate reflection of our age is not in the mirror until we approach our end game. When I was sixty-nine, I felt like I was sixty. I was happy. I was confident in my outlook. Out of necessity, I retired at 60. We had to make a little expense reduction, but overall our way of life was not dramatically curtailed. It was a relatively easy transition. When I turned seventy, I did feel a significant change. I felt like I was slowing down. I had already lost one close friend to the ravages of Agent Orange. Before I turned loose of some harsh memories of lost friendships, my mother had the absolute gall to die about three months after her hundredth birthday. I have learned that when you lose a loved family member, the pain subsides but never disappears.
So, after a day or so of serious reflection, I have realized that as much as I may feel like I am in my late seventies, the reality is that the age I see myself owning and the chronological age I genuinely am are rapidly approaching each other.
While I genuinely wanted to punch my friend into the middle of next year, he is right. I’m old. It is a very odd feeling when walking in a parking lot and a young, attractive woman smiles at you; you know it is not because she sees a potential partner but a sweet, kindly granddad.
My wife is six years my junior. Three and four times a week, she journeys out to play pickleball or work out with her sister at a gym. They both look great. When she leaves, it is very quiet. I either write or read or look at the mountains from our deck. But when her car pulls into the garage and she walks into the house, I am never happier.
As a qualified Octogenarian, I have learned that what is important is how you live the life you own. While I genuinely feel I have at least one more significant step to take, approaching it is an act of delightful expectation and sheer terror.