Tag: aging

Reckoning with the Wreckage

It was a great morning for a run.

The air was crisp. The stars in the sky were bright. The humidity was low.

And as I took my first few strides, my worries faded away.

I was in my element. I felt strong. I felt free.

But I knew it wouldn’t last.

I sensed the change around the two-mile mark. I ignored the beeping of my watch, telling me how far I’d come. But I couldn’t avoid the tightness in my calf muscles, telling me I didn’t have much more left to go.

It was the same tightness I’d felt at this point – or earlier – on every run I’d been on for the past eight months. If I didn’t stop and stretch soon, my stride would start to falter. My legs would lock up, leading my feet to feel like anvils. The discomfort would prove excruciating – and potentially damage-inducing.

I managed to make it another mile this time, stopping as my watch beeped its Mile 3 warning. As I stretched, I felt the chilly air hit my body. I was shivering and sweating at the same time.

I’d never contended with this dueling sensation before. Because in autumns past, I would never have broken stride this early. On crisp mornings like this, I’d have gone six or seven miles before I even considered stopping. And by then, even the coolest air would have felt balmy.

But those days were long gone. This was my reality now.

And it wasn’t likely to change.

A friend of mine once spoke of the significance of the age of 26.

There’s nothing given to us at that age. By the time we hit 26, we can already do everything from buying a lottery ticket to renting a car.

But 26, my friend posited, is when life starts to take for the first time.

Young adults might be able to party as voraciously as they did in college without consequence. But 26 hits different. Newly minted 26-year-olds need a minute, an hour, even a whole day to recover.

I can’t speak to this all that well. By the time I’d hit my mid-twenties, my wildest days were behind me. I was hitting the gym more. I was going to bed earlier. And I had given up fast food.

But now, more than a decade later, I feel the weight of my friend’s words.

For despite my best efforts, time has caught up with me. The force of its impact has sent me hurtling to the ground. And it’s taking me longer and longer to get back up.

I’m consistently exhausted now, often irritable, and immensely perplexed. How is everything that was once so easy now so difficult?

There are no easy answers. Only more unsettling questions.

As I stood there stretching my calves, I took a moment to consider what had been.

On those autumn mornings of yesteryear, the miles flew by because I was chasing something greater.

I was a competitive runner back then. I entered in several distance races a year. And I brought back hardware in most of them.

I had the talent and the willpower to deliver excellence. But I had no idea how quickly the sand would run out of the hourglass.

When my first injury hit, I moped about it for a week. But then I thrust myself into the rehab process, determined to come back stronger than before.

My zeal backfired. I picked up two new injuries in short order, one of which required surgery. Two months in a walking boot ensured, followed by four months of physical therapy.

By now, my fiery defiance had been doused. Just getting back to running regularly would be a victory, considering how far I’d fallen.

Amazingly, I achieved that victory, and even began a race training block. But I sustained two more injuries in the ensuing months, forcing me to shelve my plans once again.

I was now in the valley of that prolonged disaster. I was a shell of my former self. And I was growing more and more certain that I’d remain in that state.

But instead of wallowing in self-pity for my present, I was full of indignation for my past.

Sure, my exploits back then had put plenty of silverware on the wall. Medals for podium finishes and age group wins. A plaque for breaking the tape in a backwoods 5K.

But those mementos represented only a fraction of my potential.

I could have done better, I told myself. I could have dreamed bigger, tried harder, achieved more.

If I had gone all-in during those peak years, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow. There would be no unfinished business festering as Father Time stripped my speed and stamina away.

But I hadn’t.

And now, I was out in the cold. Literally.

I was left reckoning with the wreckage of it all.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

The words of The Serenity Prayer are omnipresent in my mind. I’ve leaned on their wisdom countless times throughout the years.

Much is made of the middle and the end of the prayer. After all, courage and wisdom are desirable traits in our society.

But it all starts with acceptance. Which – according to the Kubler-Ross Model – is where the grieving process ends.

I don’t think this is a coincidence.

Grief is the one of the most powerful emotions we experience in life. It’s visceral, multifaceted, and inevitable. It washes over us, regardless of whether we’re ready for the force of its mighty wave.

It’s only when the tide has gone back out that we can see what’s left behind. And that we can use those odds and ends to build back up anew.

This is the evident when we lose loved ones. While we miss them dearly, we must find some way to propel ourselves forward.

Yet, it’s just as applicable when the loss is less existential — such as our youth, our ability, or our potential.

I am finding that out firsthand.

I was once a great runner. Just as I was once an emerging marketer. Just as I was once a young man.

I am none of those things anymore. Time and its companions have taken much of the shine off me.

I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve grieved it.

But now is the time to get off the mat.

Now is the time for me to accept it all. What I was. What I am. What I can still become.

And now is the time to follow that revised path.

Reckoning with the wreckage might be a solemn obligation. But it’s an obligation, nonetheless.

Mile by mile, I’m honored to take the mantle of its responsibility.

When We’re Old

It felt like I’d been hit by a ton of bricks.

Muscles ached. Joints creaked. Pain proliferated.

What had I done to endure this? Hike a mountain? Lift heavy boxes? Plunge a shovel into the dirt?

Nothing of the sort. I’d simply slept in my own bed. And now I was waking up wrecked.

This has become my new reality. I’m getting older. And the cracks in my armor are starting to show.

Some days, I might feel sore all over for no apparent reason. Other days, I’ll wear down faster than I used to. Still other days, it’ll take me longer to remember things I once recalled instantly.

And on the worst days, all three outcomes converge upon me.

These disruptions are still relatively mild – more inconveniences than anything. I’m still relatively young, and I remain fiercely independent.

Still, they offer a dire warning. For aging only goes one way, and I’ve still got plenty of runway left for it to do its worst.

It will only get tougher to navigate the obstacles in my path going forward. And the cost of failure is sure to get higher.

When I was young, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather.

I would read children’s books with him. I’d build model train sets with him. And occasionally I’d steal his glasses and scamper off.

I’ve written a bunch about my grandfather – my mother’s father. The child of depression-era Brooklyn turned World War II veteran turned high school math teacher. He often regaled me with stories from his life. And in the process, he sparked my fascination with narrative.

The reason I shared all this time with my grandfather in my early years was that he was already retired. He volunteered at an art museum now and then, but he mostly helped care for me.

Back then, I didn’t quite grasp how unusual all this was. I didn’t understand that few people even had the option to retire in their mid-50s, still able-bodied and sharp as a tack. I didn’t grasp how rare it was for people to be able to bond with their grandchildren as much as they desired, free of professional or financial obligations.

I did notice my grandfather aging as I grew up. He had a triple bypass when I was 5 years old, and he seemed a bit more fragile after that. Recurring back problems made his posture a bit more hunched as the years went on. Occasionally, he would shuffle instead of walk.

I took it all in stride, to the degree a child could. I knew I’d need to be a bit more patient with my grandfather, and that some physical activities were off the table.

But what I hadn’t considered was what things would have been like if he were still working. Would the slow physical decline have gotten in the way of his job responsibilities? Would he have been forced out of his position? And what would he have done if he had been?

I never had to consider these prospects for him. But I surely will for myself.

It’s now harder than ever to retire at an early age. A rising cost of living and shrinking safety blanket make longer career timetables a reality.

And yet, we have little acceptance for the consequences of working into our later years. Particularly the impact of aging.

We cringe when public figures – entertainers, athletes, politicians – stay in their roles too long. And we could hardly be blamed for doing so.

These prominent people can gracefully exit stage left. They’ve accumulated enough trappings of fame to sustain them for decades.

The cards are in their hands. So, when they don’t play them, we’re left wondering why.

But few of us have the same advantages. Our options are few and far between.

So, we’re often stuck hanging onto our professional positions for as long as we can. Even as our body and mind start to fade away. And even as the world tries to cast us off.

It’s terrifying. But it’s true.

Several years ago, I started running competitively.

I was well into adulthood at this point. And years removed from my high school cross-country exploits.

I wasn’t exactly pining for those long-gone days. And I wasn’t masochistic enough to crave the sensation of sore legs, burning lungs, and a sweaty brow.

So, what got me back into racing? The allure of the fountain of youth.

Now, I’m no Ponce de Leon. I realized that there was no backwoods stream in Florida to sustain me forever.

But I believed that leveling up my fitness would help me stave off the debilitations of aging. While my less-active peers would degrade physically over time, my body would operate like an advanced machine.

This theory proved true for a bit. I got into the best shape of my life. And I posted impressive times in distance races over and over.

But then, I broke.

An injury sidelined me. Then a second. And a third.

MRI scans, physical therapy sessions, and doctor’s visits became commonplace. The word surgery went from a frightening concept to reality. Yet, I persevered through it all, determined to get back on track.

Still, I couldn’t shake a feeling. The feeling that something was different.

I was struggling to recover from my workouts, even if they were a shadow of what I once breezed through with ease. I was tweaking muscles as I got up from a chair or stepped out of the shower. And I was waking up sore nearly every day.

Despite my best efforts, it seemed that aging had caught up with me. No amount of exercising would forestall the inevitable.

If anything, my fitness efforts would collide headlong with the rip current of Father Time. I’d need to fight three times as hard just to be a step below where I used to be.

I wouldn’t say I’ve made peace with this outcome as much as I’ve rationalized it. For while running is a passion of mine, it’s not my profession. My mind is what earns me my keep, and it’s shown no signs of decline.

At least not yet.

I know that my cognition will also start to slide someday. That gaps will start to form, that failures will start to mount. I’ll fade into a shell of what I once was by any measurable dimension. I’ll start hearing others referring to me as elderly.

Given the economic realities of this society, there’s a good chance I’ll still be working then. I might desire to ride off into the sunset. But I won’t have the horse to get me there, the way my grandfather did.

I’ll be trapped in a living purgatory. Taking up space in a world that wants me to move along but provides me nowhere to go.

This is the cost of inaction when it comes to aging. Collective denial allows its problems to proliferate. And to crush us all someday.

It’s time to take a different path. To embrace clairvoyance about our future. And to use that perspective to calibrate our present.

This is a big ask. But it’s a critical one.

So, let’s not drop the ball.

We all deserve a soft place to land when we’re old. Let’s make sure we have one.

Overcoming Old

“I’m too old for this.”

That line is a hallmark of the 1987 blockbuster Lethal Weapon. In the movie, established Los Angeles Police Sergeant Roger Murtaugh finds himself partnered up with “loose cannon” Martin Riggs. Anytime Riggs’ reckless actions put the two of them in danger, Murtaugh blurts out those iconic five words (plus an expletive).

There are certainly many moments when this line finds its way into my life. Most recently, it popped into my head as I was walking across a college campus on a sizzling late summer evening.

To my left and right were undergraduate students a decade younger than me — guys in shorts and flip-flops and girls who could best be described as “scantily clad.” (As a classmate would later quip, “It seems like the price of fabric’s gone up since we were in school. Cause no one’s sporting it.”)

In the midst of it all, there I was — dressed in business attire and feeling very out of place.

It was an eerie feeling — one I’m sure anyone might feel on their first day of grad school. For despite our efforts to break down the barriers that come between us, age is still the Great Differentiator in our society. And feeling old is kind of like wearing a Scarlet Letter.

***

Why are age divisions a hallmark of our society? Because we were raised on them.

Literally.

All through grade school, we socialized and learned with peers who were our age. As we steamed past adolescence, our age provided us access to the driver’s seat, the voter’s booth and the bar. And as young adults, we quickly learned how age (masquerading as “experience”) plays a critical role in climbing the corporate ladder.

None of this is an accident. Our system of age-based division provides us structure. It presents us with goals. And it even rewards us for merit.

Still, in certain instances, it can make us stick out like a sore thumb.

Yes, our rigid age structure self-segregates our society. It limits our tolerance of cross-generational activities. And it makes us feel self-conscious when we’re “not in our lane.”

Simply put, it makes getting old no fun at all.

***

Now, I’m generally not one to rail against the cruelty of aging.

I don’t pine for days gone by, when life was more innocent and fun. I’ve fully embraced the changes that come with maturity and experience — changes both in abilities and responsibilities. My awareness of the latter has allowed me to progress through young adulthood gracefully. Perhaps too gracefully.

I’m not kidding. I jokingly refer to myself as a “42-Year-Old at Heart.” And my favorite song is Garth Brooks’ Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old, which I listen to every year on my birthday.

So, no. Aging generally doesn’t bother me.

Yet, when the time and place is just right, my John Wayne façade crumbles. And there I am —  sporting a button-up shirt and slacks, yet feeling as naked as Adam after he was banished from Eden.

Yes, it seems regardless of our disposition, getting old will eventually get to us.

***

So, what can we do to overcome this predicament? What can we do to stem the shame, self-loathing and decreased confidence that comes with being long in the tooth?

We can start by reminding ourselves that we belong. That we have a right to go about our business, pursue our dreams and live our lives, regardless of the crowd we might encounter along the way.

And if we still find ourselves in moments of doubt, we can remind ourselves that we have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, the knowledge and experience we accrued should be celebrated. It lets us live a more enlightened life and have a bigger impact. And it lets us accomplish more while erring less.

You see, overcoming old is a power we all possess. We don’t need a journey to the fountain of youth or a Botox injection. We just need the mental fortitude to break with our age-obsessed society. The wherewithal to change the narrative from a glass half-empty to a glass half-full.

That’s something we should never be too old for.