I am not 50 years old. I won’t be until May of 2015. To be honest, my age isn’t really a concern for me. When I look in the mirror, I don’t spend much time trying to find the man that I was. Thanks to good genetics, I look pretty much the same as I did before. Sure, there are slight wrinkles, some early signs of deterioration, but they almost always hide beneath my elastic-like skin. To look at me, you would not think I am almost half a century old. I like to think that it is my personal energy, my underlying aura that acts with my biology to mask my state of maturity. I still look young and I still feel young and not just at heart. I have survived thus far and so, apparently, has my epidermis.
Growing older torments so very many people. Billion dollar industries are based entirely on anti-aging products. Looking younger has become the new way to feel younger. It is understandable for a person to get old, just not to look old. I have a friend inI embrace growing old. I am a lucky man to be here, let alone to be so intact during the process. My life is a gift. It is just a bonus that the package has held up so well. It makes me happy to know I still look good. It pleases me that I do not look my age. I will admit that it feels rather nice to have someone compliment me on my appearance. It is not vanity to agree wholeheartedly with their observation. Someone stoking the ego never lasts very long anyway. My overall look and a youthful presence hide nothing but a number. I even have moments when some have found me wanting for a youthful glow. The car dealer who asked if I was my partner’s father was testament to the law of perspective. The teenager who guessed my age at 54 cemented this reality. Having nieces and nephews in their 30s makes it all the more inescapable. When adolescents call me “Sir,” I tend to cringe. The eye of the beholder can be a cruel fiend.
who spent more money last year on plastic surgery than I have on an entire
lifetime of cosmetic rejuvenation and quick fixes. It is not a sin to say I
look far better than he does, even after all that work. Being a lawyer has its financial
benefits for him, I suppose, but it seems just silly to waste that much money
on something so inevitable. He spends so much time running away from getting
older that he has missed the experience of what it is to age. I do not believe that
he will go gracefully. San Francisco
I am prepared for the date that I become quinquagenarian. It is really not that far away. It is out there, drifting, lingering, waiting to make its claim. My time is more than half over. One day soon I will be 50. I find it hard to believe I even made it this far. It is almost freeing to not even care. I hardly ever think about what it means to be my age. I guess when you try to commit suicide like I did, and you awake to a brand new day, like I did, the rest of your time on earth becomes much like icing on a cake. Even after almost 20 years, I still recognize how much of a blessing life can be and that my time here must be treasured. Every day I am thankful to have one more day. Not a moment passes by that I wouldn’t like to kick and stretch and kick. I’m almost 50, 50 years old.
The ravages of time seem to damage so many and spare so few. It is no wonder we fight so hard to stay young. We want to look good, we want to feel good, but most of all, we want to stay good. We will spare no expense, and endure endless torture, all for the luxury of pretending we are younger than we really are. Time marches on and we refuse to accept it. Its passage is but a reminder that death approaches. We try to deny this is so. We tell ourselves that this process of concealment is better, so much easier than it would be surrendering to the truth. We deflect our fear with potions and procedures and somehow we convince ourselves that looking the part makes it real. We are often not ready to admit that the end is closer than the start.I have no intention of living my life in this manner. I refuse to spend the time I have left trying to trick people into thinking I’m so much younger than I really am. It just seems so pathetic. I don’t see the point. You can try to fight it, but you’ve already lost and you can never win. This is easy for me to say at this point, considering, but I don’t understand all the bother. I have always looked forward to getting old. I think I have earned the right to hope so. I will let nature take its course. I am not going to fight it. Time is fleeting. My days are numbered. It is coming for me. No shit.
Personally, I would love the chance to be a grumpy old man. I can see myself sitting on a park bench having a smoke. I am not as young as I used to be. Life has sketched out its traces on my face and hands. I appear as quite the curmudgeon. I have reason to be. I have outlived anyone of importance to me. For the first time in my life, I am completely alone. It doesn’t matter. Soon it will come for me and take me to them. I will see them all again. I can barely recognize myself within him. He is a stranger, but I know him well. He has been beaten, he has been broken, but unlike the rest, he made it this far. It appears he ran the good race.
I quietly approach, uncertain and unsure. I have so many questions to ask myself, if only in my own mind. I want so much to understand. I wonder if it was worth it, would it have been better to go like the rest? Are these dog days good days or are they bad days? Are they happy days or sad days? I touch him on the shoulder and he sees me just fine. He grumbles like an old man would. We sit and we talk and he lets me in on his dirty little secrets. There are tricks of the trade one uses when surviving god.
I now can see myself within him. I was there all along. My eyes, my features, my soul, they are intact, unspoiled by the constant pull of degeneration. As the end of our encounter approaches, when the time has come, I am granted one question above all others. He knows that I know what he will do. I don’t have to think about it, it has always been there, all along. “In all your life,” I asked myself, “what lessons have stayed with you the most?” He looked at me, then at himself, and he smiled every so slightly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black and silver cigarette case. It was the very one I myself had in my pocket. He opened the seam, plucked one from its resting place and lit it with a matchstick rather than a lighter. He paused in his thinking so I asked him again. “What lessons did you learn from life?” He growled ever so slightly and took a big haul off his cancer stick. Predictably, he replied, “This and that.”
“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.”(Mark Twain, American author)
Sally O’Malley (Saturday Night Live)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trcXlTiy3Xw