Older and Maybe Wiser

I saw my grandfather naked this week. And I figure it goes without saying the experience was disturbing on so many levels.

There he was, with enough baggage under his eyes for a two-week trip to Venice. The stray white hairs poked out at odd angles from both sides of his head, not unlike those things sticking out from Pinhead’s skull in Hellraiser. Meanwhile, my grandfather’s fat was congealing everywhere, from the sagging jowls to the generous scoops of man boob to the love handles. Picture a feed sack and you get the idea.

The worst part of this encounter, though, is that my grandfather has been dead for 22 years. I think I would have preferred some sort of ghostly encounter than what actually happened. Which was that I’d encountered multiple reflections of my naked self in the symphony of mirrors in a hotel bathroom, thus allowing me to see all of myself in a way that is thankfully never possible at home.

My first reaction to this sighting was to blame whoever decided that that many bathroom mirrors was a good idea. Seriously, who thought that the one thing we want to see while traveling is multiple unflattering angles of our bodies? I don’t envy vampires often, but that whole no-reflection-in-the-mirror thing they’ve got going is necessary for anyone using a hotel bathroom.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m 50. I know I’m old now. Or, at least, older than I imagined myself being back when I was a kid and figured you got into nursing homes at 40. Still, I’ve always (and arrogantly) assumed that I have done an okay job of outrunning the aging process. I still have hair that hangs down onto my neck, and for the most part retains its original brown-ish color. I remain a size 30 when it comes to Levis. I can still get the occasional “No way!” when I explain my real age.

For years now, I’ve coasted by on all this, certain that I could pass for someone at least 5-7 years younger than I actually am. (As long as I don’t resort to habits that give me away, like referring to CDs as albums or actually calling people to communicate rather than sending an email.) I may not have had much going for me otherwise, but I did have this quirk of genetics that kept age from wearing my advanced years on my face, hanging there like some ragged old jacket from college that I still can’t bring myself to toss out.

It’s all part of the process. It becomes pretty obvious early on in life that we’re all getting older. And from that point on, we all do everything we can to avoid it. Entire industries have been around this phenomenon. Without fear of aging, a substantial percentage of medical and cosmetic professionals would be forced into finding careers in, say, the food service industry. Not to mention the fact that, in this fantasy world without the depression that comes with seeing our bodies devolve, the CW would be America’s number one network.

I used to truly believe that I’d be different from everyone else. I’d age gracefully and accept any and all body challenges that nature threw my way. It sounded good, in theory. Besides, for 25 years now, I have been working hard to stay as fit and healthy as possible. I’ve made it a point to get the gym several times a week, usually getting up by 6 a.m. to do it. Thus disproving the belief that guys my age are awake and moving at that hour only because we need to pee.

Still, even this devotion to keeping myself in shape is not without its reminders that like every car I’ve ever owned, things start to break down eventually no matter how many times you take it into the shop for routine maintenance. As in, why is it after sleeping for seven hours, do I wake up with mystery aches and pains I didn’t have when I went to bed? I did nothing but lay still for a fairly long period of time, but my first steps every morning find me hobbling over to change into my gym clothes. I guess you know age has taken control over your body when sleeping becomes an activity that leaves you feeling as though you just played two hours of hockey.

Undaunted by this, though, I keep trying to take care of what I have left. Like my diet, for example. It’s not like I was living out of a KFC bucket in my younger days, but we can always find little ways here and there to improve what we eat and, hopefully, improve how we look accordingly. I’ve pretty much shut the door on red meat. Every breakfast includes oatmeal. There are no more buckets of peanut butter pretzels on my desk at work. I have a glass of red wine every night…..I know, I know... the rumor that Chianti can lengthen your life was probably started by the same guy who likes to convince people that eating doughnuts cures cancer. But drinking it beats the hell out of wheat grass smoothies, so I’m going to indulge and just hope there’s something restorative about it in there somewhere.

Thanks to all this effort to stay healthy and fit, I really have mostly felt good all my life about my appearance as it related to my age. At least right up until my grandfather came for his bathroom-mirror visit. Well, that and the moment shortly thereafter when I finally heeded my doctor’s latest warning and agreed to start taking Lipitor.

Technically, it’s not an old man’s drug. People of any age can develop high cholesterol, and the goal with Lipitor isn’t appeasing vanity anyway. It’s about staying alive. Still, I had avoided trying it despite repeated warnings about my HDL level escalating into the high 200s. For me, it was a lot like the federal deficit -- this theoretical number I kept getting warned about but still didn’t really connect to my own life.

The deficit got real to me when I sunk my savings into my house and had to start paying attention to the sad state of the current economy (which is enough to make me consider voting Republican, which is another key indicator I’m getting old). Then, the cholesterol count became real to me on a spring weekend when my son got the walk-off hit that sent his Little League team into the playoffs and his sister had a starring role in her school’s production of Grease. I had a choice to make that weekend. I could the old-man drug Lipitor, or put family ahead of vanity and start on the pills to make sure I’d be around to see many more ballgames and school plays.

I went with the pills, which means I get to add a few years onto my life. Although they’re ones that’ll get tacked on at the end, like extra time at a soccer game, rather than right now….when I can make more use of them. After all, these really are supposed to be the best years of my life. I know this because a survey told me. A recent study apparently found that people over 50 were generally happier about themselves and their lives than people under 50. Despite the flourishing of ear hair and love handles, along with the simultaneous retreat of scalp hair and long-term memory, it seems that the older you are, the more comfortable you are with it all.

This may seem counterintuitive. When you’re young, you’re supposed to be having more fun. However, once you hit the half-century mark, there’s actually more stress behind you than in front of you. Generally speaking, anyway. By this point in life, you’ve probably been married, had kids, found a career or two….meanwhile, those in their 20s and 30s probably have yet to go through all those life-changing experiences. Okay, so for us 50-plus folks, death is a bit closer and that merits a passing concern or two. But even that closeness can be a positive thing. Only at an older age to you start realizing the inevitability of your own demise and with that, you stop worrying about the little things. Like a pair of jeans that don’t fit anymore or not being able to read with bifocals.

And once again, my son is helping me realize this. Whether he wants to or not. He’s about to hit 13, and watching him begin his battle with puberty has been very helpful in keeping me from squandering every penny I have left on hours of liposuction, barrels of Grecian formula and a petition to make hotel bathroom mirrors illegal. Basically, he’s going through the same sort of changes I’m going through. Both our bodies are getting all wonky on us on an almost daily basis. We’re seeing hair change and appear in places in didn’t use to exist (my ears are like a forest for elves, while his underarms are getting fuzzy). We both can see our physique shifting (his is more in the upward direction, while mine is more side to side). His teeth are now covered with braces, while at least a couple of mine have now been replaced by fake ones.

While I wouldn’t want to go back and be his age again if I had the chance, I confess I still haven’t entirely gotten over the shock of my grandfather-ly encounter. I don’t know that any of us ever entirely get used to seeing age slowly taking over all our body parts. The key to accepting our growing greyness, I think, is probably to spend less time focusing on the stuff that doesn’t look or behave the way it used to and more time enjoying what we still have. Which means embracing our age, and others who share it. (Please take note, those of you who still think girlfriends half your age somehow make you feel younger.)

Personally, I want to spend as much time as I can in a world that looks more like who and what I am these days. We can judge each other based on our similarities, rather than our differences. I want to see movies with the likes of Meryl Streeps and Dustin Hoffman. I want to golf (yes, another activity for the aging) with the same demographic I’d meet while waiting for my colonoscopy. I want to have dinner with people who can converse about where they were when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.

And the best part about doing all these activities? Other than not being so self-conscious about our hair, waistlines and creaking joints…We can use our AARP cards to get discounts on the movies, rounds and meals. So it’s pretty much a win-win…..

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