Time is the ultimate stuff of conspiracy theory. It holds us all in its thrall, yet it is invisible, without scent or taste, bends and stretches, drags, sometimes stands still, and except for those vampires among us, it kills us all. Aside from those memorable days or moments that make up a life, it passes us by without much notice until, of course it’s too late.
I’ve written about the subject before in an earlier blog, but the concept gets a refresher in my mind as I pass a milestone year (hint, it’s in the title). Now, it should probably be a matter of concern for me that I am that old already. It snuck up on me. God knows, when I was young, people in their fifties and sixties were practically being fitted up for their coffins — and looked like it too.
These days, it’s a different matter. Thanks to advances in hygiene, nutrition and medical science, (and no doubt persistent preservatives in the food chain), our sell by date has been extended and the journey from ripe to rotten put off by decades.
For people of my generation (that would be ‘X’), it’s a matter of personal pride as much as a matter of self-respect not to get old, or at least to seem so. At 60 you are still young enough to remember what it was like to be young with the unfortunate caveat that it’s a land fast receding (like the hairline) in the rearview mirror. At the same time, you are made increasingly aware that the hill you have been figuratively climbing is reaching its pinnacle and the sunny uplands you were promised open out to a hard scrabble slip and slide slope to decrepitude below.
Any attempt to act young ends up looking preposterous and hanging out with kids in a club just makes you look like a sad old lech or as they rightly crown it, the oldest swinger in town. Clothes though are a different matter. I reserve the right to dress in contemporary clothes, seek for classic, timeless appeal and durable, natural materials like wool, cotton, denim, solid footwear and the occasional embellishment of silver on wrist or finger. Until you reach hospital pajamas, good clothing is non negotiable.
Toupee or not toupee, that is the question
Ten years ago, to my horror I was ambushed by a small but increasing aperture bald spot (think F11 to F6) which my wife pointed out to me on a plane destined to Berlin where we were celebrating my 50th (your best friend wouldn’t tell you, but your wife…). As I approach 60, fortunately, I’m still not ready for the Andy Warhol wig. but I haven’t ruled it out for when I approach the ‘ham sandwich with two side buns’ look or full slap head. In the meantime, I’ll keep pushing the Bela Lugosi look before I run out of road (or in this case, follicles).
Aside from a few broken bones and related medical interventions, I remain for the most part, physically intact as well as being compos mentis. I view keeping a body I can recognize in the mirror as a prerequisite for the good life. The good news about that is that my hybrid vigour has blessed me with a compact but serviceable mortal coil which doesn’t bulge in the wrong places and has been, until now at least, as reliable as an army rifle.
The very thought of being an invalid, whether by dint of lessening mental faculties, or some pernicious chronic disease is most definitely a devil on the ceiling. It would be plain hateful to lose agency and to be a burden to others, and indeed myself. But that will, I suppose eventually come too, despite my best efforts to stave it off. Hopefully, and probably by then, the Soylent Green solution will be widely available to my generation (and algorithmically-tuned immortality for the wealthy). I certainly have no wish to be sitting gaga in adult diapers in a care home staring at a wall.
So, does turning 60 confer any gifts? Well, I suppose it sharpens the mind about mortality, which is a call to action that is difficult to deny. The average life expectancy for males in the world today is a little over 70, which wouldn’t leave me much wiggle room on this mortal hook. Time to get busy living before I start dying.
Also, I have noticed that there is a certain mellowing effect in the way I view the world — more acceptance of what is than what isn’t. Simply put, you are willing to forgive more. Of course, proponents of wilful ignorance and bloody mindedness still infuriate given the fact that we owe it not just to ourselves but everyone else to be better humans.
It’s difficult to feel any connection with those who sow discord and misery in the world, when enough exists as it is. Stupidity, greed, self-interest and cruelty feel even more egregious knowing as you do with the perspective of age, that so much could be avoided with just a little more thought and good will. You hope more that there would be positive changes in the world instead of the litany of bad news. Witnessing it the same time makes you like yourself less for the learned passivity of your life.
You worry about the future, especially for your children knowing that the life circumstances that supported you have faded as surely as an aging parent. Knowing that you have got this far in adult life makes you wonder how they will be three or four decades hence, wondering what their world will be, knowing what it already is.
You worry less about the past — we all make mistakes; the more important point is you learn from them. As you age, you realize that worrying is in general a waste of psychic energy — save that energy for making practical plans.
Good company and friends start to feel more precious, knowing as you do, that everything is contingent and ephemeral. An unplanned pint of beer or a meaningful conversation can hold more happiness and fulfilment than a planned holiday abroad.
Things that seemed important are less important. You have no need to impress anyone and wonder why anybody else bothers to. It’s incredibly liberating.
Work is still important (especially when there are seven long years before you can reach pension age and mortgages still to pay), but you wish to define your terms better knowing how poor the terms are — for most, the game is rigged. If you smoke, drink and work then die at 65, you will have done your duty as a taxpayer.
If you define yourself by the job you do, then, apart from a few gilded professions, at 60 and upwards, don’t be surprised that you are in the process of being decommissioned (or already have been). Machines don’t need pensions.
I enter my seventh decade with a sense of curiosity and trepidation. I have plans with my wife to escape to the old school we bought in the Finnish countryside last summer but there is still much heavy lifting to do before we get there. That said, it is a plan and at my age, you’ve got to have one.
Time the hungry ghost has me on its menu. It’s either that down the road or me becoming a member of the undead. In the meantime, I’m working on that hairline.
