Sometimes I regret that I didn’t have a serious discussion with either of my parents about the process of aging. I kind of remember the subject being broached from time to time, but I didn’t take the opportunity to store away a few words of wisdom, and instead either laughed or shrugged the conversation off.
I’m not sure why. Maybe I was trying to ignore the fact that both parents were in fact aging before my eyes, and subconsciously I was aware of the inevitable end game. Or, maybe I just didn’t give a shit because I wasn’t in the same stage of our life cycle as them.
Whatever the reason, it’s too late now and so I’m experiencing all of the trials and tribulations of getting older without their acquired wisdom and warnings.
I didn’t need them to tell me about the obvious things. Like my hair vanishing and my eyesight waning. I didn’t need them to tell me about slowing down and not being able to physically do things that I used to do with ease and without a thought.
Those things were obvious. Well, to be precise, those things were obvious from an intellectual perspective. I was clever enough to grasp that the slowdown was coming, but human enough to not give much of a shit because they weren’t coming tomorrow.
What I wished we had talked about are those moments when a realization of age forces its way into what would normally be an ordinary decision.
I’ll provide a couple of examples to illustrate what I’m trying to say.
I was driving the other day and some twat breezed through the merge without even turning her head. At the last minute she looked my direction and instead of braking she shot me the finger and proceeded on her way. I didn’t have a clue what logic path had just transpired in her head, and I related that confusion to my wife as I told her the story. My wife asked me if this woman was old. I replied that yeah, she was some grey haired old bitch. Then I stopped mid sentence because a lightning bolt of realization hit me. My wife was looking at me curiously, and I had to tell her that the old bitch in question was probably around my age.
Poignant moment, and since then I’ve had to adjust my description of who’s old and who’s not. What I’m really doing is moving the judgement bar so that old people now means people older than me. An interesting side effect of this process is that there are now a lot more kids in my stories. If the woman that cut me off were anywhere between sixteen and thirty, they are now described as kids.
Another example.
I was cleaning out some cupboards in our shop. I found a brand new baseball mitt that I bought a few years back and have never used. As I held it in my hands I was struck with the thought that I was never going to use it again. I’ve had my shoulder surgically repaired and a few innings of baseball wasn’t ever going to be attractive enough to risk a re-tear of my rotator cuff. This aging moment isn’t a rare occurrence. I’ve had the same experience repetitively where I’ve had to come to terms with the fact I’m permanently done with certain activities. It’s a sobering moment each and every time though, as I let go of another thing that I used to do without thinking.
Like moving a freezer to the basement, or water skiing, or roofing in July. Or shoveling the next massive dump of snow. Fuck that, that’s what snowblowers and those thirty and under kids are for.
Also.
I wished we had discussed the change in the thought process regarding physical discomfort. When I was younger I dismissed pretty much all aches and pains as a momentary distraction. This is no longer the case. When I was twenty and my stomach hurt I assumed I had a minor flu and carried on as best I could. Now, when that same ache manifests itself I immediately wonder if I have stomach cancer. The same formula applies to chest pain. I’ve gone from assuming I pulled a muscle to wondering if I’m having a cardiac event, and I’m pretty sure the pain I’m feeling is and was roughly the same in both instances.
I know that even if the pain remains the same, that my perspective on that pain has changed. The sad fucking thing is that the perspective change is legitimate.
I’m leaving tomorrow for a two night, three day golf adventure. Golf has changed for me over the last few years too, and this trip provides another example or two of conscious decisions about getting older. Under normal circumstances, I usually golf with other guys my age. All of us have reached that stage where we can still hit the ball almost as far as we used to. The problem is we can hit it further than we can see. This trip involves kids though, so some of them are in the thirty range. Hopefully I’ll be paired with one of them for all of my rounds and someone will be able to see where the ball ended up.
So. there’s the eyesight thing.
But there are a few more golf trip issues I’ve been pondering. I’m not sure how my psyche is going to respond to the fact these kids can hit the ball a fuck of a lot further than me. I think I’m going to struggle with the fact that I’m not doing anything technically wrong. They’re just stronger and more flexible than me. I guess that’s why the PGA has the senior tour. Still, I don’t feel like I’m ready to gracefully accept this new reality. I understand that I have to accept it, and that’s why it’s called a reality. However, the graceful part remains optional.
Also.
We’re staying in cabins, and my age is making me wonder about how comfortable the beds are going to be. This is a new concern. Years ago I didn’t give a shit if I slept in a tent or the truck, but I have a concern or two these days about sleeping arrangement.
And.
All of these guys are in party and golf mode. I’m a party with the boys fan. Always have been, but now I’m wondering if I can keep up and if it’s wise to even try. Three days of drinking and golfing is probably going to cost me about a week of feeling off my game, and I’m seriously considering the cost as opposed to the benefit. This is a new calculation for me and I’m not liking it one fucking bit. The dislike is two pronged. The first part is a personal realization that I just can’t drink two days in a row. The second prong is that I don’t want the kids to see that I can’t party two days in a row.
I suppose that the only alternative to accepting the inevitable is to drop dead. However, there’s the graceful part of this acceptance. I always hear the term, aged gracefully, but I’m also aware that the implied grace has a fuck of a lot to do with still being able to function.
If I somehow manage to stay relatively healthy then I can give the graceful part some serious consideration. But if some ailment befalls me then fuck the grace part. I’ll settle for being the bitchy old guy I guess.