A young male writer who recently turned 60 was lamenting his old age.Please, I thought., I have untied nine-tenths of my mortal coil. Don’t talk about old young whippernappers.
One obvious difference in the 20 years between us is highlighted by the fact that a 60-year-old man probably hasn’t experienced ageism yet. A healthy man of that age is not far from his social and cultural peak. Put him in a suit and he could be a minister to the king or a hotshot CEO. Women, and most often men approaching their 80s, are probably just furniture in the city. Only her peer group truly sees her as an equal.
Although we may decry what has become modern day wallpaper or complain about being patronized, young professionals still feel free to give up their seats on the bus or skip the line. You should have them lined up. Perhaps our legs are not so strong anymore.
All this pales in comparison to the horror that Proust evokes when he describes the influence of the “chemistry of time” on his own singular and once important figures. His descriptions of aging make people rush to the mirror. It’s best not to think about the process by which body fat fuses into a soccer ball-shaped stomach almost overnight. You don’t even notice how your cheeks are drooping and your turkey neck is swollen. It also looks like cement was sprinkled into the wrinkles instead of fairy dust.
But the aging faces and bodies of our friends carry a lifetime of experience and wisdom, and when they smile and laugh, the clichés come to life. Their carefree youth is clearly visible. They grew up in a lace-draped environment in the middle of the last century, and some had fathers who went to war. They all lived through what some considered Australia’s Golden Age, and also a time of accelerated social change.
I especially think of the women who are now riding the wave of people in their 90s. What an amazing generation of women this was and is. We travel back to the early ’80s, shaped by key social events of the era, including the advent of television, the tumultuous ’60s, the Pill, the Vietnam War, Vatican II, and second-wave feminism.
I think of our parents’ generation, which faced greater challenges, such as the World Wars and the Depression. I also remember the struggles of my ancestors and the brave matriarchy that preceded me.
What I do know, like many people, is that my family is the center of my life and the only anchor that has kept me afloat in often difficult waters. Watching your children grow up, and then as one generation passes on to another, satisfies a deep, primal need. Between joy and tears there is the satisfaction of love.
After a roller coaster of a life, now that I’m older, I feel that silence in a noisy world is peace. The house, once a chaotic resting place for a hard-working single mother and her children, is now a haven of order and tranquility. I’ve been on the roller coaster too many times, so now I like the feeling of having my feet on the ground. I don’t really like talking to strangers anymore. Because talking to a stranger might mean talking to a boring person. Indeed, behind everyone there is a story, some of which we no longer have time to read. Many people live their lives under the metronome of habit. When Proust speaks of the “powerlessness of habit,” he is certainly warning us that the constant cycle of daily repetition creates certain constraints.
A remarkable gift of aging is time. It’s time to be still, notice and remember the shapes and colors of the world, and understand your own failures so that you can empathize with others. My memory bank is like Jack Horner’s plum pudding, just legendary magic. When you put your thumb in and pull out long-forgotten joys and near-misses, they keep coming one after the other too quickly to be catalogued.
In the late hours of life, we reflect on what we have lost and what we have gained, we meditate, and we learn to reflect on a society that is alien to the one we knew as children. We still miss our old friends who have passed away. Many of them still keep a digital roll call of the dead who have graced my life. Some of those left behind become impatient and grumpy, and it is best to drink in small doses. These are people who are fed up with their depressing feelings covered in mannerisms.
Just because you’re approaching the age of 90 doesn’t mean you’re less involved in society. Enjoy yin yoga, exercise, and daily coffee with local friends. Importantly, there, to keep their gray matter active, there are intellectuals who discuss the fragility of today’s world with their engaged comrades, and perhaps gossip about the tall poppies they once were. It’s about cultural and political conversations happening. There are now weekly flag-waving marches across the city in protest of this terrible war in Gaza. A trip to ancient Greece and possibly farewell visits to Florence and Rome are in the works.
As I approach the age of 90, there are many things I regret. She regrets that she didn’t stop and breathe more often. I think I could have been more kind. That sometimes I was bothered by fools for too long. I regret not knowing the constellations of the night sky, comparative mythology, how to speak Italian and Arabic fluently, how to ride a motorcycle, play mahjong, and dance the tango. Then there are all the books I haven’t read – many of them next to my bed. Some days, this list seems endless.
A rich time awaits the 60-year-old young writer. Family, friends, knowledge, wisdom – a rich tapestry of a life to enjoy. One day he will rise unsteadily from his cafe chair and join us in walking down the slippery slope, measuring the hours of his life with Prufrock’s coffee spoon, his soul on the edge of a passing point, a place of memories. You’ll be hooked on the kaleidoscope and your next plan. The next exciting achievable adventure. Until then, he is welcome to smile at every 90th and even 10th year soul that passes by.
