Older Age, What Is It Good For?

Navigating the process of aging whether I like it or not

The renowned developmental psychologist, Shlomo Katz, described older age as a window of opportunity to learn from one’s past, forge new paths of self-awareness and engage the world with a renewed eagerness. Was that my experience?

I was riding the subway one day, holding a Whole Foods bag in one hand, reading the New York Post sports section in the other when a red-cheeked NYU student looked up from his seat and said: “Excuse me, sir, would you like to sit down?”

I looked around to see who he was addressing but there was no one behind me, no one even beside me. I was perplexed. Did I look so decrepit that I needed a goddamn seat? To hell with the kindness of strangers.

A few weeks later, I was in the paper products aisle of Costco, eyeing a carton of 36 rolls of Charmin Ultra Soft toilet paper. I was about to deposit it in my giant shopping cart when a thought rocked my brain: What if I wasn’t going to live long enough to use all of it? In the event of my premature demise, I didn’t want people rummaging through my stuff thinking I was a hoarder or, worse, had a toilet paper fetish.

An eye-opener involved my sanctum sanctorum, the gym, in which I religiously pray every day of the year. I used to be fanatical in pumping iron, mastering Yogi-like flexibility, and building the endurance of a Kenyan marathoner. But, as my workouts got shorter and less intense, I could no longer deny that no pain-no gain had morphed into just wanting to leave the gym in no worse shape than when I came in.

Over time, little shocks and jolts, most of which I spare you, became par for the course: losing hair where I wanted it, sprouting it in places I didn’t; and seeing my once beautifully straight toes go off in all directions, as if they had minds of their own, seemingly repelled by each other’s presence.

So, leaving aside the issue of my own shallowness, I began wondering whether there was some window of opportunity that I was missing. Nah.

My earliest perception of being older occurred when I decided to take the big step, something I had put off for months: asking for the senior discount when buying a ticket at the Regal Cineplex in Union Square. I anticipated that the agent would be incredulous at my claim and demand proof off my bona fides.

When this did not happen and the agent just charged the lower price, I felt discombobulated. Could he not see me as I saw myself? A frisky colt, wizened but certainly no geezer. Was this clerk playing mind games with me? How dare he! But, wait, I was the one asking for the discount. Age had begun screwing with my head.

I used to be quite adventurous, flirting with danger now and again: rock climbing with my college buds, 100-mile bike rides, backpacking through Eastern Europe. I thought of this when downing, in one swallow, my usual complement of 15 pills during lunch.

I was alone in the house and this jarring, cockamamie thought rocked my brain: what if I choke and die right there on the spot. Taking pills, I suddenly realized, was now the most dangerous activity in my life. Perhaps older age was the new adventure.

Lately, I could not help but notice that I was more avidly reading the Times obituaries, particularly the ones for people in their eighties and older. I experienced joy that if they could live that long, damn, so could I. The obits of those who died younger of a tragic illness or unfortunate event held no interest for me other than congratulating myself for living so long.

The benefits of older age extend to the relationship with my wife. When she asks me, somewhat irritatedly, to do something she has asked me to do a few times before, I can meekly apologize that my short-term memory just isn’t what it used to be. She loves soft lighting, hating the electromagnetic fields generated by artificial illumination, and often implores me to lower a few of the lights.

I gently remind her of my cataracts (unchanged for decades) and how every little bit of light helps. In these instances, I am comfortable enough with her responses, mostly shrugging her shoulders, looking at me with a scent of pity, and then going about her business. Ah, marital bliss.

In my younger days, I was not much into material things and rarely got attached to any particular object. But, now, I have found something which has become my Holy Grail. I treasure it beyond all reason, live in mortal fear of losing it, and guard it with my life. It is my half-price, senior MetroCard with my picture on it. I felt blessed by some unknown force in the universe every time I used it.

I must admit to disappointment that older age has not produced any epiphanies, any aha moments about the meaning of life. I continue to be astounded that one day I will not exist. That seems like a totally bogus thought to me. In the meantime, all I can do is appreciate that every morning the Times is waiting on my doorstep and hope that my daughter stops calling me periodically to see if I’m still alive and kicking.

I realized I was definitely getting older when my nasolabial folds started resembling crevasses so deep that my nose became an afterthought. Older, in my mind, did not mean old, although the distinction may be suspect. Being older only made me realize that I wanted to live a lot longer. Perhaps not as long as Jeanne Calment, a French woman who lived past the age of 122, recently profiled in the New Yorker. But longer.

Wondering if there was anything I could do to postpone my eventual demise beyond avoiding refined sugar and exercising every day, I flirted with certain cryonic alternatives but that seemed more on the road to denial than acceptance of the inevitable. Having my head floating in a tank of liquid nitrogen seemed an unattractive way to meet one’s maker if there was, in fact, one to meet.

The potential ravages of older age continue to drive me to the slippery edge of hypochondria. I find myself constantly scanning my body for the slightest aberration, running to the Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy, now horribly dog-eared, at the slightest twinge, twitch, or ache. I just don’t want to be shocked or surprised if something is wrong.

I definitely want to avoid a doctor somberly telling me I have some disorder or disease. That might explain why I keep putting off my “yearly” check-up until my wife reads me the riot act. Even then, I mastered the art of passive-aggressive behavior such that she grudgingly accepts that these visits are likely biennial.

I am particularly relishing sleep, reveling in dreams full of adventure, enticing relationships, and memories of things long forgotten. I often wake up wondering whether it was a dream or real life, often wishing it was the latter. The distinction between the two feels a bit tenuous, at times.

As a result, I am staying in bed longer, my sleep extending to 8 o’clock, then 9, and now beyond. My wife has begun violently vacuuming every morning in an effort to rouse me. Never apologetic, she simply says: “It’s time to rise and shine.” I’m not so sure.

One night in my office, I was washing my coffee cup and left it in the sink with the hot water running while I tidied up. Returning a few seconds later, I could not figure out how to shut off the water. Flummoxed, I considered buzzing the super and asking him to come up but that seemed excessively humiliating. Calling my wife was an option but what could she do anyway?

Panic turned into hysteria and then pure terror. I stood staring at the running water, motionless, frozen. The thought flashed through my mind that, perhaps, this was early-onset Alzheimer’s. But, my hand groped for the handle and pushed it backwards, towards the wall, and voila! the water stopped.

It dawned on me that, over the weekend, the building handymen had replaced the older handles and faucets with fancy new ones. (I must have missed the memo.) Experiencing, for a brief moment, what it feels like not to be able to perform a simple, everyday task is not something I needed to know, although it might come in handy in the future.

In our coronavirus era, I have a sulfurous bone to pick with the media, especially their so-called reassuring early headlines that the disease mostly affected the elderly. While edging into that category, I flat-out resent the term, which smacks of deterioration or debilitation.

It contradicts my sense of self as a spry stallion frolicking in the pastures of the city. Perhaps new nomenclature is needed. Elderly might be replaced by “wiserly” (as in “wise elder”) or stay with the bland “seniors” or, damn it, just say “older” and it leave it at that.

I must admit to disappointment that older age has not produced any epiphanies, any aha moments about the meaning of life. I continue to be astounded that one day I will not exist. That seems like a totally bogus idea to me. It doesn’t help that, when I haven’t talked to my daughter for a while, she’ll call to see if I am still alive and kicking.

So, what is older age good for? It can’t be, as Woody Allen described it, that as “you get older you get more and more frightened because the terrible indignities of old age become closer to you.” I am more up for Erik Erickson’s view, describing it as the eighth stage of psychosocial development, one pitting ego integrity vs. despair; it’s a stage where one can experience a sense of coherence and wholeness.

While that’s something to strive for, there are certain pleasures to count on, such as relishing a slice of extra-cheese pizza, seeing the Times on my doorstep every morning, or marveling at the wondrous species on Planet Earth documentaries. The pleasure of giving a bedraggled taxi driver a huge tip should not be underestimated. Most importantly, older age brings with it an enhanced perspective on life, leading me to hope that I will see the end of Trumpism before my time is up. What I wouldn’t give for that!

A few years of my life? Maybe.