I am approaching an age commensurate with the number of the year in which I completed my first year of college and, more importantly, life on my own in a place other than my parents’ house. It’s 71 for all you that don’t know about hippies and peace and love and the Beatles or Blood Sweat and Tears. I have decided several things - or had them decided for me - sometimes I am a slow learner; first, old age is simultaneously a process, an event and an art. The process involves time and its effects on our physical and mental states, and is something to which I contribute little and can’t do much about beyond live or die, and therein lies the art. Not dying, while occasionally as simple as not attempting to jump over a creek or not driving too fast for my older reflexes to respond in time or not climbing up on chairs to change smoke alarm batteries, is usually controllable to a degree, and calls mostly for the recognition of the physical limitations imposed by getting older. Eating less, not frequenting bars, limiting sugar intake, not smoking, walking the neighborhood, going to bed at 9:00 and not driving at night are all part of the art of adapting to getting older. Some call it discretion; others call it recognition of your own ever-increasing physical limitations. That’s also part of the process of aging that primarily consists of a series of events, in that every few days or so I learn of a new limitation that wasn’t necessarily present the day before. I recently discovered that it’s not a good idea to kneel or sit on anything lower than a chair or couch without first recognizing an available recovery method. The embarrassment of crawling to a nearby table or chair to help yourself back up can be humbling. It’s often harder to adjust to what you can no longer do than it is to what you still can. Your mind says “yeah, go ahead, you can probably make it” and in the middle of whatever it is your body suddenly tells you “This was a terrible idea, and will probably hurt a lot before it’s done.” Those events are reminders of aging that can only be ignored at your own peril.
I never planned to be old. My Dad, when we asked him how he was doing, used to say he was good for about 2 more clean shirts. When I would call his mother - Grandma Arnold - and ask her how she was Dad would say “Dammit boy, don’t ask her how she is or you’ll be on the phone for the next 2 hours hearing about it.” I suppose I thought of old people - you know, those people that were my age now when I was 30 or 35 - as always having been the age they were. Old. I never thought about them being 20 or 30 or, heaven forbid, 5 or 6 and having others taking care of them. Perhaps I thought they just magically appeared at the age they were with no history and not a lot of future left. I see now how self-centered and shortsighted that was, and recognize that’s probably the way those arrogant, selfish little 20 somethings look at me now.
Time, I have learned, is a tenuous, sometimes evil thing, and seems to pass more quickly and more slowly simultaneously. When I don’t have a meeting to attend or a project or a doctor’s appointment, for example, the time in my mornings seems to drag slowly and the minutes can seem like weeks. Then I look around at the end of some weeks and discover a month has passed since I last noticed what week it was, I find it difficult to believe I’m that much closer to an impossibly old age. Again. Just wait. You’ll see.
Some other things I have noticed may seem trivial and mundane, but believe me, they are momentous occasions to us because they are personal. My mother, for instance, used to tell me that I stopped taking naps when I was 10 months old. She will have noticed, from her heavenly perch, that I began a few years ago taking naps with glorious abandon and enjoying every somnolent moment. Our dog is following my example.
Our dog Sammie, by the way, is also a daily topic of discussions and observations between Betsy and I and is generally better behaved and more even tempered than either of us. The dog, I mean. Her flatulence, or at least what she gets blamed for, has increased with age, but we just move to a chair across the room and let her continue to sleep.
We almost always have more trouble hearing each other now - well, mostly me because of the PA columns from years of rock and roll bands near my left ear during my time as a rock god and marching band percussion sections in both ears in the 27 years of being in and directing marching bands - and more often than not Betsy has to ask and/or say things at least twice before I give up and move closer to where she is standing, even in the same room, in order to hear clearly what it was she demanded...I mean said.
Passwords are the bane of my existence, and I refuse to comment further. I don’t think my intense anger and frustration with my missing short-term memory should be invoked unnecessarily. I think I hold the current record for forgetting a password I changed less than 15 seconds ago.
Mama prepared me for a lot of things, but having the hair in my eyebrows, nose and ears grow exponentially faster and thicker than the hair left on my head is disconcerting, at best. I’m pretty sure that was not always the case and know for a fact I never had to have those particular hairs cut twice in any given month until recently. I might say that it’s a result of increased brain power, but only to the extent that I can remember random events and song lyrics from the 60’s and 70’s but forget where I left my glasses that were sitting on top of my head. I won’t mention any names, but someone in our house spent 20 minutes searching for their phone using the light on that particular phone to help look. The hair on my head is getting longer, not as some symbolic representation of a return to my 20’s, but because I hate paying $30 for a haircut worth $1.50, so it may also be that a certain degree of oppositional defiance disorder is in play.
Back in my late teens and early 20’s I could sleep anywhere under almost any conditions without ill effects. I have, on several occasions, slept in the floorboard of a 1964 Chevy Impala across the transmission hump with no pillow or blanket for several blissful hours and awakened, when it was my turn to drive, alert, refreshed and ready for my time behind the wheel. Now I can sleep on an expensive mattress in my bed in our comfortable house and wake up ill-tempered, out of sorts and in severe pain because I “slept wrong.” My neck hurts, one or both shoulders hurt, I have a backache, and someone seems to have removed one of my kneecaps while I slept, and I have no satisfactory explanation other than “sleeping wrong.” I can only assume I am paying mentally and physically, during my sleep, for sins real and imagined.
Dizziness seems to afflict me when I stand up too quickly at almost any time of day or night, and without a steadying hand on a chair, a table, a couch or a nearby person the dangers of falling until the feeling passes is quite real for as long as 15 - 20 seconds. When this first began to happen, I fought it valiantly for about a week, then decided that discretion was once again the better part of valor, and standing motionless but supported was safer by far than attempting to walk until the moment had passed. Especially in the dark. Floors, at my age, are not as far away as they might seem.
Balance in general has become more elusive than ever, and standing on one leg is impossible without support. I strategically position myself near a door frame, bed or wall when putting on socks, pants or underwear so that if my foot or leg misses my target I don’t fall into the tub or my closet and create another fine mess, and an opportunity for additional bruises, both physical and mental. Walking in a straight line seems more difficult than it used to be, and I find myself teetering in different directions without the intent to do so, but a couple of catch-up steps usually gets me back on track. Usually. I absolutely refuse to use a cane. Yet, anyway.
I have begun collecting an impressive and ever-changing set of bruises on my hands and arms that sometimes seem to appear as if by magic. There does seem to be a distinct correlation between the appearance of any bruise and my attempts at using a hammer, pair of pliers, screwdriver, knife, saw or any other tool you might imagine, up to and including vacuum cleaner and broom. Wrestling water bottles out of the plastic collars that hold them impossibly connected or even detaching small containers of yogurt from each other can also create a new set of bruises that might, to the untrained eye, appear painful and serious. I have even managed, while walking nonchalantly down the hallway, to hit my arm or hand on a passing doorframe or doorknob with the same result. While mowing the yard I can suddenly find copious amounts of blood flowing from a wound inflicted by a branch I moved so it wouldn’t knock the cap off of my head, and often these wounds can make it appear as if I barely escaped from a recent Zombie apocalypse event and may soon succumb to what seem to be life threatening injuries. I can only conclude that the bruises and wounds are a gift and accept them as a daily reminder of my own fragility. It’s either that or let Betsy go ahead and begin the commitment proceedings.
I do manage to find time to read and to play my saxes almost every day. I have noticed that several of my more experienced friends find solace and refuge in playing their respective musical instruments as well, and I find it improves my mood and reinforces what I used to tell my band students; you will indeed perform like you practice. Even after all these years, music and reading are still keeping me sane…sort of, anyway.
I refuse to complain about getting older and choose rather to view it as a privilege than a burden. Like Mama said, complaining without a solution is nothing but whining. I would rather be young than old but given the choice might hesitate to go through some of the same trials and tribulations again just for the sake of being young and stupid once more. There are indeed moments when I find myself wishing that I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then. Rather than saying that I’m good for another clean shirt or two or telling everyone that asks how I really feel and just exactly where it hurts, I’ve decided my answer will be the truth; I’m just happy to be here. And I mean it…but I’m keeping those two clean shirts handy. You know, just in case.