I turned fifty-two yesterday and I have to say I had a pretty glorious day. As usual I did whatever I pleased (it’s a nice life!) which included going on a field trip with my sons class and spending time with my wife and kids. We went for an awesome dinner—though I over-ate for the first time in a long time, and that wasn’t the best way to end the day.
On almost every level aging is going well. I feel pretty great for fifty-two though I don’t have much context for what feeling bad would be. Getting up and down off the floor is pretty smooth but I have been working on the fact that I lower down to the right every time and tend to plop the final six inches or so.
As a movement teacher I am making people get up and down off the floor repeatedly and this is an eye-opening experience. Some accomplish this in a smoother fashion than I, but the majority labor in some way or another, and many are much younger than me.
The other day I wrote about feeling pretty darn strong (stronger than ever even) and wondering when that shall begin to wane, but I am feeling the ravages of time in other ways. I wrote a while ago about getting a liver spot and now I have two.
In last year I have been reminded me of this line from a David Sedaris piece in the New Yorker:
Yes, the washer on my penis has worn out, leaving me to dribble urine long after I’ve zipped my trousers back up.
The first time this happened to me I thought I must have prostate cancer or an enlarged prostate (which I don’t) but it turns out to be another fairly normal, if not oddly disturbing, aspect of aging.
My eyes started taking a turn for the worse at forty and that process has not slowed down. I had stellar eyesight my whole life and now need reading glasses for anything I look at.
Finally, for my whole life I carried certain things with me always. For the first forty years or so I had a pockets filled with keys, wallet and a book. In my forties that changed to keys, wallet and a phone. But in the last couple of years I added a handkerchief that I truly can’t leave home without.
This has something to do with my Bell’s palsy but in truth the handkerchief was always something I saw as an older generation thing that I didn’t need and associated with maturity of a sort.
So there you have it. I feel great at fifty-two though profoundly aware that sixty approaches and time is limited. What a trip.