Tag: time

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.

The Allotment of Time

I have all the time I the world.

This thought crossed my mind as I headed to the airport for a business trip.

The late-afternoon flight had essentially curtailed my workday. But I had time to make up the difference.

After all, my flight would take about two hours. I’d likely be at the gate for an hour more before boarding the plane. And once I landed ad my destination and made it to the hotel, I’d have an hour to tie up some last-minute work tasks. Easy peasy.

At least that’s what I thought.

But the flight was delayed. Then delayed again. Then moved to a different terminal. By the time I’d made it to my new gate, I had little time to boot up my computer and get anything substantive done. And the delay caused me to arrive at the hotel near midnight. No work nightcaps for me.

Add it all up — plus the time I had to stow my laptop for takeoff and landing — and four hours of asynchronous work time had been condensed into only one. Much of what I’d hoped to accomplish would have to wait for another day.

Time had gotten away from me.

My travel dilemma was not unique.

Indeed, there have been many other instances where I’ve misjudged how much time I’d have at my disposal.

This is not a failure of arithmetic. I have an MBA and spent three years producing evening television newscasts. I know my way around a math problem.

No, something deeper is at play here. My inability to probably allocate time is a failure of context.

You see, I consistently view time as finite. I see it as a set of 24 hourlong blocks that can be divvied up to meet the needs of the moment.

What I fail to consider are all the little complications that might eat away at that time. The moments spent walking from place to place, taking a bathroom break, or fielding an unexpected phone call.

These instances seem insignificant. And on their own, they might be.

But in aggregate, they can eat away at those blocks of time. They can wreck the most carefully laid plans.

They’ve laid waste to mine, time and again. But recently, I’ve tried to take control.

I’ve averaged out all those interruptions and run experiments from those findings. And all this work has led me to what I call the Rule of Three.

The Rule of Three dictates that I should split an open block of time into three parts. Two of those three parts should be dedicated to an inevitable slew of interruptions; I shouldn’t expect them to lead to productivity. But the third part can be devoted to completing substantive work.

This heuristic didn’t hold true when I got caught in travel limbo. I lost three quarters of my allotted time that day, not two-thirds.

But in general, it does hold water. And such knowledge has helped me navigate my day, set accurate deadlines, and even write my Words of the West articles.

Yes, the Rule of Three has been a game changer. But it doesn’t leave me feeling fulfilled.

For instead of thinking of what I accomplish during my productivity spurts, I’m left to consider the two-thirds that got away.

It’s my cross to bear.

This game I play — it’s hardly reasonable.

The clock might tick to a steady beat. The sun might rise and set at specific times each day. But few other elements of everyday life adhere to such precision.

Expecting perfection out of any aspect of life is a fool’s errand. I know this as well as anyone.

Yet, here I am, ruing any little blip that sets me off schedule. What gives?

Part of this is surely my own neurosis. My disdain for any semblance of laziness in my life causes me to account for every second of my day.

But a bigger part of this mindset is cultural. In fact, it’s a hallmark of our society.

Ever since the dawn of the industrial era, we’ve been encouraged to account for every minute. The transcontinental railroad gave us time zones and standardized clocks. Henry Ford gave us the assembly line and interchangeable parts. And the public education system gave us regimented schedules.

With each development, the message was clear. Time was not to be wasted.

Such ideals did have benefits. They helped America make the leap from a frontier nation to a superpower, and they created the playbook for a developed nation.

But the drawbacks have been just as stark. Skyrocketing instances of burnout, declines in quality control and the crushing weight of insecurity have all carried a heavy toll.

This system of extreme accountability asks more of us than we can reasonably expect to deliver on. It expects us to be machines, and to adhere to perfection. And that is something we can’t reasonably hold up to, either mentally or physiologically.

And so, we are destined to make a mess of time allotment. And we are bound to feel bad about it when it happens.

Our society wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I was a teenager, I’d often head to bed late. And in our family home, that meant one thing – I was responsible for turning off all the lights.

As I’d go through this process, I’d often find my father in his study, working under a solitary lamp.

My father – a schoolteacher – has always been a notorious procrastinator. He tends to start a dayslong project – such as grading papers or writing lesson plans – the night before it’s due.

I had no desire to follow the same path, so I played a little Jedi mind trick on myself. I would convince myself an assignment was due the day before it actually was, and then procrastinate leading up to my fake deadline.

This trick worked like a charm. I’d get my assignments in on time, every time. And my work would generally score high marks.

But now, I no longer have the same confidence in my technique. When pressed for a firm deadline on a project, I waffle.

Adulthood is complicated, with surprises at every turn. Calculating the Rule of Three on the fly is even tougher. Put both factors together, and I’m so overwhelmed that I’m tempted to shut down.

But I’m not a quitter. So, I try to overdeliver. I aim to get as much done in as little time as possible, knowing the odds are against me. And all too often, this process leaves me bitter and disappointed.

There’s a better way for me, and for all of us. So, it’s time for call it like it is.

We are human, and rigid time allocation processes are inhumane. We must give ourselves some slack to account for the variability of life. There is no other viable way forward.

So, from now on, I’m going to approach things differently. Instead of forecasting how much time I have at my disposal, I will simply strive to do my best and settle for what I accomplish.

This approach might not be sexy. But it should bring a balance of effectiveness and peace of mind.

And ultimately, that’s what matters.

Prioritizing Time

Which matters more: Time or money?

Many of us would go with the first option. But we have a strange way of showing it.

In reality, we tend to put our bank accounts first. We know that money is a finite resource and live within our means.

Yet, we fail to treat time with the same care.

We overload our schedules, meet our obligations with haste and act as if there’s no tomorrow.

All to earn more money, more accomplishments or more prestige.

It’s as if we consider time to be a maximizable asset. Something that can provide us an outstanding return on our investment if we play our cards right.

After all, we can’t pay for a burger with time. Or buy our dream house with it. So why not leverage time the most efficient way we can?

But thinking this way is a fool’s errand.

After all, time is not something that can be sped up. Or slowed down. Or packed and stacked to meet our agenda.

It moves at a constant rate.

Like the dripping of a faucet, that tick-tick-tick of the clock is relentless in its consistency. Always headed forward, but never in a hurry to get there.

Yes, it turns out time is the most finite form of currency there is.

Once a moment is gone, it can’t be recovered. Its only remnants lie in the banks of our memory. But the passage of time can cruelly take back those memories from us.

And of course, our existence itself is finite. Our hourglass will run out of sand someday. Yet, the tick-tick-tick of the clock, the rising and setting of the sun — those patterns will continue on.

Maybe that’s what terrifies us.

The lack of power and control. The inability to have final say over our destiny.

Perhaps this is why we feel we must dice up time like a tomato. Even if it’s better to mold time like a ball of clay.

Perhaps this is why we live in micromoments, run ourselves ragged for 19 hours a day, and become slaves to our email inboxes and phone calendars.

Perhaps this is why we continually race that tick-tick-tick of the clock, as if it’s Mario Andretti at the Indy 500.

All this running around might keep us stimulated. It might keep our cash balances replenished. It might help us get on the fast track to bettering our situation.

But there are significant tradeoffs for these outcomes.

When we run ourselves ragged, fatigue becomes normalized. Our attention spans erode. And regret eats away at us like a cancer.

This behavior doesn’t help us make the most of our life. It destroys it in the most brutal and calculating of ways.

The hour has come to end this destructive cycle. To give time the priority it deserves.

The hour has come to view time as a gift that’s given. Not a resource to be mined into oblivion.

The hour has come to value time more than money. Or any other factors competing for our attention.

We might lose some productivity when we commit to this shift in thinking. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

By prioritizing time, we gain freedom and fulfillment.

And that’s certainly worth striving for.

Chasing Time

Age ain’t nothin’ but a number.

I’ve said this dozens of times before, because I know it to be true.

Sure, there are some physiological changes that go on at certain points in our life, and there are certain items we can only buy if we’re of a certain age. But all too often, the number of years we’ve been on the planet has less to do with our place in this world than we think.

Of course, we collectively bungle this truth all too often. That’s why we splurge on the bright orange sports car in response to our “mid-life crisis.” And it’s why we throw ourselves lavish parties for a milestone birthday.

There’s an expectation that the number we’re associated with should impact the way we live our lives. It’s the expectation that leads us to think “Now that I’m 55, I need to become a different person,” and then either accept or rebel against that statement.

This is understandable. After all, our society emphasizes the importance of age on a foundational level. It’s one of the reasons we go to school with kids our age. It’s one of the reasons why we must wait until we’re old enough to be able to vote, drink or rent a car. It’s one of the reasons why amazed by the 24-year-old in upper management, yet look with scorn at the 22-year-old with two kids.

In short, we act as if our society is a meritocracy, with age as its currency. This is why we expend so much effort chasing time — celebrating the passing of the years while letting that occurrence impact our behavior.

If only we could open our eyes.

For the truth is, it’s not how long we live that matters. It’s how we live that does.

How responsible we are. How we treat others. How we carry ourselves. We have an obligation to keep these consistent — and consistently positive.

This obligation remains with us, whether we’re 8 or 80. And our adherence to it can help determine our legacy long after we pass on.

I’ve taken this mantra to heart for several years. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t care much about my birthday (aside from showing gratitude to well-wishers), and why I refuse to let my age dictate my destiny. It’s one of the reasons why I evaluate those around me by their thoughts and actions, rather than their age. And it’s one of the reasons why I always try and act righteously and responsibly.

This is a much more productive and open-minded way to make it through life than worrying about how long we’ve been on the planet. And a productive, open-minded approach is much needed in a time when our society seems more distrustful and divided than ever.

Let’s break down one of these worthless barriers omnipresent in our society. Let’s stop chasing time and start focusing on life.