To be young again, or not to be, that is the question

People often say there’s no way they’d want to be 25, or 30 or 35. Youth seems to end about 35 and middle age takes over. But are they being honest? My 20s were the best years of my life. Why wouldn’t I want to be young again, not knowing what the future held, unlimited vistas ahead, and the feeling that I’ll live forever?

It’s amazing to me how little some things change as we get older. I’m always thinking that maybe I look younger than I am. I haven’t ever thought of myself as looking “my age.” That would be 74. Now I actually do look my age. When I tell someone they no longer look surprised, but just nod sadly.

The interesting thing about this is that I’ve been viewing myself this way all my life, since high school probably. Now, reading those humorous books by Dave Barry and others about turning 40 or 50, seems like ancient history, even though those ages seem young now..

I’ll always remember my 40th birthday celebration at the small town newspaper office where I worked in 1991. It was quite a milestone and cause for a good bit of jesting from my co-workers at the time, including an over-the-hill type of birthday cake with black icing that said RIP on it, and black balloons floating in the air. (thinking back I can’t imagine what kind of food coloring was in that cake icing!).

Ten years later there was the 50th birthday party given by my colleagues at the library. This included a bottle of geriatric vitamins and a supply of Rolaids antacid tablets. All in the name of fun, of course, and I didn’t feel even slightly older or less energetic in my 50s than I did in my 40s.

All this joviality is meant to gently and subconsciously mock the deadly serious passage of time that birthdays and decades signify. But when the 60 and 70 milestone years came and went, there was hardly a mention, except for good-natured ribbing from my two younger siblings. But the full import of aging has arrived with shocking suddenness this year when I turned 74.

Not very subtle things began occurring, such as as when I’d take my daily walk and after briskly walking for ten minutes feel my back and shoulder muscles aching and my arms hanging like heavy barbells. It’s harder to get in and out of the car, and up and off the sofa where I sit for many hours each day, making sure to get up at least once an hour. I don’t sit at my desk and I don’t lie in bed except for late at night a few hours before going to bed. And I constantly find myself bewildered that I’ve even reached this advanced age. And I won’t even get into the severe little jolts of anxiety I feel when I do something just a bit out of my normal routine or have trouble finding the right word or remembering a name or a place. I am well acquainted with what dementia entails, right down to the most agonizing details played out over the course of years. Sure you don’t want to go back and be 25 again?

One weekend recently, I decided to take a walk around Colonial Lake, and started out as usual, only to make it half way before having to return home. I was just too tired and exhausted. I got home that night and could barely get out of my recliner chair. Just all the lack of sleep and busyness catching up with me in a big way.

Earlier in the week, I couldn’t help but notice all the joggers and bicyclists, including some old timers huffing and puffing, looking like they could collapse at any moment. That’s beneficial exercise? They’ve got to be miserable. Meantime, they’re breathing in all the fumes from the traffic and just enjoying themselves thoroughly, from the looks of it. What body shapes and sizes! A parade of old Baby Boomers trying to live forever.

Then there was the teenager who was running on the opposite side of the street from the geezers. He was flying just above the surface of the pavement on the “Wings of Mercury.” Youthful. Fleet of foot, effortless, and aware of it, too. The out-of-shape wrecks made for a morbid comparison. But when you get old, you don’t care as much what others think.

What I’m saying is, sadly, you can’t turn back the hands of time. Youth has the advantage where health, vitality and longevity are concerned. To believe otherwise is delusional. They have the wind, the stronger hearts, the leaner physiques.

I’ve never felt old until now, but when I was 29, living in Columbia and going to graduate school, I thought I was some kind of sage, looking at life from the wizened perspective of my advanced years. College students seemed impossibly young to me at that time. You can imagine how they seem now. I had put some very bad experiences behind me, so that is partially why I felt the way I did, for I truly I had aged considerably, mentally and emotionally. But at least I had the better part of my life still ahead of me. Now I’m very definitely on the other side of that equation.

I wrote this in my journal in May of 1980 when I had just turned 29:

Was on campus [University of South Carolina] for at least a short time every day this week. The old “Horseshoe” area (the original campus) is so beautiful this time of year. Great old trees reach for the sky and shade the ground. It’s a park-like area with students and others constantly coming and going. I like to just sit and observe the passing scene. Again, I’m struck forcibly with the idea of fleeting youth as I watch the college students in groups or singly, throwing frisbees or lying in the sun. Frisbee throwing is such a great spring pasttime in the afternoons. I loved to sail them myself. The carefree pastime is a symbol of a time and place in life. I can’t run around after them like I once could. But it is entrancing to see the limber and graceful movements of students as they spin and leap and cast themselves into the air to catch those little plastic disks. I’m caught in a carefree interlude, ripe for moody ponderances on the flight of time. Here are these students in the prime of life. What use would they have for such ruminations?