Patrick's Essential Guide To Growing Old

 "All the world is in stages. Men and women play in one, then roll on to the next." ~ (I just said that)


* When you are in your single digits, you can't wait to be in your double digits. 

The greatest achievement of a 9 year old is to turn 10. Double digits imply wisdom and experience. A pair of numbers standing side-by-side forces those immature 9 year olds to look up at you with respect. You've successfully passed the first major threshold in a hopefully long life. Forget growing in all your permanent teeth, never mind learning to ride your bike, or finally conquering long division. Ha! All of those trivialities are nothing when compared to joining the Double Digit Club! Remember when you had to overcompensate with the use of fractions? "I'm six and a half!" "Today I'm seven and three-eighths!" No more sounding like a hat size. Today, you are proudly and officially a shoe size!


* When you're 14, you can't wait to be 16.

At 16, you get to drive! Even if you don't have regular access to a car, the simple knowledge that there is a card in your wallet that allows you to get behind the wheel is a life-changing sensation. Driving opens up a whole new world to you. It doesn't even matter where you go, just as long as you go, because even if you never previously ventured more than four blocks from your house, or if your parents took you on annual trips around the world ~ all future journeys are yours, and yours alone.

At least in theory. That new found freedom you discovered in your driver's license also became a sense of liberation to your parents. Behind that look of anxiety on their faces every time you reach for the keys is a smile of satisfaction, knowing that the burden of all those mind-numbing chores they had to slog through over the years has suddenly been removed. Hope you like visiting the grocery store a dozen or so times a week, because the path to your independence is going to have a few detours. Don't forget to bring your Preferred Savings card.


* When you're 16, you can't wait to be 18.

18 is when you legally become an adult. Sure, you've had the power and authority of a car for two years, but now, now you can stay out past curfew! And drive across state lines! A word of advice, though: try your best to squelch the temptation of driving into Utah at two in the morning. It's really not worth it. In fact, I'd strongly advise against entering Utah at any hour.

You can also legally buy lottery tickets, get a tattoo, and go to a strip club. And if you're lucky, all at the same place. (Again, another reason to avoid Utah.)

Of course, there are downsides to being 18. You're now eligible for the draft, if the government ever institutes one again. Not that there's anything wrong with military service, but if getting shot at isn't your idea of fun, you'd probably be bummed by this invitation.

There's also the matter of being treated as an adult in the legal system. You can now sue people, but they can in turn sue you back. Oh, and all that fun stuff you were doing with your 17-year-old girlfriend in the rapturous days leading up to your birthday is now considered illegal. That's right, even though she turns 18 in another month, depending on where you live, you could be arrested and tried for statutory rape. And no, driving across multiple state lines into Alabama is not the answer, because you've now just committed a Federal crime. Being an adult with an under-aged girlfriend or boyfriend is not what it's all cracked up to be. Google Jerry Lee Lewis or Mary Kay Letourneau for reference, if you don't believe me.


* When you're 18, you can't wait to be 21.

Now that you've spent three years worrying if you'll be arrested for statutory rape, you can finally have a drink! Woo-hoo! You're 21! You can walk into any bar in any town in the country ~ assuming that they don't mind having you there. Couple things about bars, though ~ you'll find that they can be just as cliquey as sitting at the wrong table in the high school cafeteria. And a lot of them just plain suck. Few folks though, at this inchoate stage of bar-hopping, possess the aptitude to distinguish a good bar from a bad bar. Similar to the concept of a two-year-old not being selective about who their playmates are ~ as long as there's someone else to frolic with in the ball pit, they're happy. The smell, filth, and crappy music are of no concern.

But, for all of 21's inherent significance, it's really a clandestine plateau. When you hit 21, you feel like you've never been happier in your life. Obviously, some of that's the alcohol, but hidden behind the buzz is an unsettling reality that this might be it. You might not ever be happier than you are right now. You shrug it off as paranoia due to all the sudden abilities, and responsibilities, that have opened to you as a result of your recent birthday. The euphoria returns, for a while, and things level off. 21 quickly becomes 22, and you must seriously begin planning on what to do with your life. You begin to imagine the future, and for the first time, you look at 25, but you don't look too hard, because 25 is about when your car insurance premium drops, and when you start thinking about things like that, you really get the sense you've come to an end.


* Then suddenly, you're 30, and you wish you were 21 again.

One morning, you wake up at six to that goddamn annoying alarm clock, and your head hurts like holy hell. It was only a few years ago that you could stay out all night and get up the next morning for work, or class, without feeling any worse for wear. Now, you can barely pull yourself out of bed, and when you do, muscles you didn't even know you had are screaming at you for deciding to use them today. You slowly creak over to the mirror and take a look at yourself: haggard, wrinkled, slightly stooped, and notably heavier than you ever remember being. Your eyes may be red and puffy, but you're still able to notice the small clump of vomit on your shirt. You are relieved when you realize that it's not from you, but from the baby. Your eyes open even wider. "Oh my god!" you think to yourself. "I have a baby! I can't go out partying like this!"  Slowly, bits of last night's party begin to come back to you: you had one glass of wine while watching the local news, and fell asleep on the couch.

You shake your head, wondering when you became this pathetic person. Pieces of animal crackers fall out of your hair. You pretend not to notice, and brush your teeth.


* When you're 40, you wish you were 18 again.

All the frenzy of getting your life together and putting your dreams into motion is over. By now, your path has long been determined. You are firmly ensconced in your career, and more than likely, a long-term relationship, as well. You have a house, a car, maybe two, and a little money in the bank. When people look at you, they see a reasonably well-adjusted person who appears to have their life together. You are the envy of your peers!

When you look at yourself, you only see how damn old you are. Every line on your face contains an unfulfilled promise you once made to yourself. Each new gray hair personifies a missed opportunity. A choice made out of obligation, rather than personal desire. You are convinced that you and you alone are the ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD who is suffering through this burden. Yes, your life is good, but you wish it was slightly better. So, you make another promise to yourself. You resolve to work harder at becoming exactly the person you always wanted to be. It's not too late! You can do this! There's still a lot of life to live! You feel energized! So, you compile a list of things that you need to get started, because now that you're 40, you've found that it's best to compile your thoughts into writing, so you don't forget. When the list is complete, you immediately hand it to your 16 year old so they can drive to the store and pick up your supplies after school. This is going to work!



* And by the time you're 50, your kids are 21, and you wish you were 16.

Well, you gave it a shot. When it all sets in that there's no way any of your extraneous dreams are going to happen, you ask yourself a simple, yet direct question: "What the fuck happened?" All you want to do now is get in your car and drive. It doesn't matter where ~ you just want to go. That card in your wallet informs you that in a few short years, you'll be allowed to get a ten-percent discount at Denny's. It's life-changing, and it scares the hell out of you.

How did this all happen so fast? It seems like only a week ago I was young and appealing. Strangers actually flirted with me! Now, you're being called sir or madam, and for some damn reason, you can never remember where you put your reading glasses!

You look at teenagers today, (with your other glasses ~ and not for very long, either, because if you stare at them for more than a second or two, you're quickly suspected of being a closet pedophile), and you find yourself astoundingly thinking, "Kids nowadays! They don't have a clue of how good they have it! They have the time and freedom to do anything they want ~ travel, read, learn to play an instrument, or speak a new language ~ but all they do is hang out at the mall and shoot me dirty looks whenever I watch them."

If you could go back in time, you'd show them how to properly manage their time! You'd have a spreadsheet, with a different activity planned every hour: reading, exercise, music lessons, interaction with friends. Why does that sound so familiar? Oh, yeah. All of that was in the brochure you got in the mail last week for the rest home.

What the hell is wrong with me?


* When you are in your 60's, people treat you like you're 14.

The kids are grown up and moved out. It's now just you and your spouse, and the two of you are finally able to do all of those things that your previous constraints kept you from doing.  Congratulations! You've finally made it! 

Except your kids keep getting in the way. Calling all the time asking you to babysit, reminding you to take your medicine, or telling you not to drive after dark.

But, you're not a child. You're an adult, and you know what has to be done ~ you want to party like it's 1999! You've earned that right! Just for the hell of it, you have a Bloody Mary for breakfast. Why? Because you can! But the acid from the tomato juice has upset your stomach, and the vodka's made you sleepy. Going back to bed to sleep it off is out of the question ~ it's already six a.m. ~ the day is almost half over by now! You opt instead to make a pot of half-decaf, and get an early start tackling those dang weeds out front before the grandkids come by for the weekend.


* When you are in your 70's and above, you can't wait to be 100. 

Okay, the truth is, you can wait. And you want that wait to be as long as possible. But it's a wait you look forward to ~ being in the Triple Digit Club! A trio of numbers standing side-by-side forces those jealous 99 year olds to look up at you with respect. You've successfully passed the last remaining threshold in a hopefully even longer life. Forget that you've managed to keep all your permanent teeth. Never mind learning to navigate your wheelchair through tight spaces. And winning at bingo four times last month? Ha! All of those trivialities are nothing when compared to joining the Triple Digit Club! Remember when you had to overcompensate by rounding down, and talking in decades? "I turned seventy not long ago." "I'm in my eighties." No more sounding like a vague weather report. Today, you are proudly and officially the winning score in an NBA game!


* And Beyond...?  

To date, the oldest living human was 122 years old. Science very well could find ways for us to eclipse that number, (I hope they figure it out soon!), but how we'd behave would only be conjecture at this point. My guess is, there's going to be an awful lot of smiling.

And probably far too many people trying to do things that will probably kill them. But, at least they'll die old, and with a smile on their faces.

The Happy Post About Dead People

My father is twenty-nine years older than me, so when I was fourteen, he was forty-three. A year later, I was told my parents were getting a divorce. I only bring up the divorce because it is a reference point from my past that I can vividly recall. The day my father officially moved out, some friends and I helped move furniture from my house to his new apartment. In addition to all of the obvious emotions and thoughts that filled my head that day, as I hauled the various boxes and tables up the three flights of stairs, I remember thinking to myself how old he seemed. Forty-four? That was old!

Now that I have a little more age under my belt, along with unwanted body fat, I can unequivocally state, no, it's not old at all. Not even close.

Conservative blogger/activist Andrew Breitbart died today. I was not a fan of the guy. As a liberal, there wasn't much for me to like. My intention though, is not to perform a ranting autopsy on the recently deceased. Instead, I'd rather discuss the legacy left behind as a result of premature death.

Forty-three is a ridiculously young age to go. So is forty-eight, which was how old Whitney Houston was when she passed away a few weeks ago. The Rule of Three was complete with Davy Jones dying at sixty-six ~ which, while yes, is mathematically is a larger number, is still far too young. Trust me, the older you get, the lower those numbers seem. Ask your eighty year old grandparent about Ben Gazarra, and I bet they say eighty-one is too young to die.

While Jones' cause appears to be nothing more nefarious than a heart attack, it is widely assumed that Whitney's death was attributed to drugs ~ whether she was using at the time, or if her body finally broke down as a result of past abuse. There is a selfish part of me that's hoping drugs had a role in Breitbart's death, as well. Not so I can do mean-spirited grave dance, but so it helps relieve the fear and paranoia that it really can happen at any time. I don't know about you, but my first reaction after hearing about someone dying young is to pack my gym bag, and hope that rededicating myself to a daily elliptical regimen will add extra time to my life. My plan is to celebrate my one-hundred-and-fifth birthday. Sure, I might not be able to blow out the candles, or recognize any of the guests, but damn it, I'll be alive to see it!

There are many downsides to dying young, but one that gets overlooked in my opinion is the way your life is framed to others as a consequence. Your lasting legacy.

Not many people have it all figured out early in life. If you happen to be one of those lucky bastards who know what you want when you're a teen, and actively pursue it and achieve it in your early-to-mid twenties, then good for you! I'm jealous, and think you suck, but really, good for you! Sadly, that's not the way it works out for most of us.

Most of us have no idea what we want. Ever. We stumble around from job to job, relationship to relationship, or experience to experience, hoping that sooner or later, one of them will seem appealing and stick. There is no data that I can find to back this up, but I have a strong feeling that if you asked a group of one hundred random forty year olds if the job or career they they are currently involved in is the one they hoped for as a youth, an overwhelming majority of them would say no. Then again, it's not our fault if the demand for cowboys and astronauts is at an all-time low.

That's why people spend so much time and energy re-creating themselves. The job that fit you well at twenty-three suddenly feels old and constrictive at thirty-three. Others have a significantly different problem ~ they feel trapped in their job, unable to make the wanted change for one reason or another. Because of that constant change, or the resentment at not being able to change, we sometimes do stupid things. You get into fights and make regrettable comments. You spend your time masking your pain with drugs. You become bitter and take it out on the wrong people. The examples are limitless.

The good news is, you can overcome all of it.

The bad news is, you might not have the time.

Of all the things Andrew Breitbart accomplished in his life, he will probably be remembered most by the events that occurred just before his death: being captured on video maniacally screaming at Occupy protestors, and calling them rapists. There are few people who would view this clip and not think his unprovoked actions are borderline insane. Had he died twenty years from now, (which, as I pointed out earlier in this piece, would still be too young), that moment might merely be a fleeting chapter of a greater story. True, he could have gotten even crazier with the passage of time, but he could also have been granted the opportunity to put into context his actions of that night and tried to make sense of it. We'll never know.

The same goes for poor Whitney Houston. I was never a fan of hers either, but there are millions across the world who were. And when her name is mentioned, to a great many of us, the memory of her drug abuse will enter our minds before thoughts of her musical accomplishments will.

Please don't think this is some anti-drug screed, because it's not. Nor is it a plea to curb your emotions in the political arena. It's about the opportunity to alter the way we're viewed by others, and by ourselves. Now, I'm the last person to suggest that we all live our lives like saints. First of all, it's because I'm an atheist, and therefore don't believe in saints, but secondly, it's because I realize that it's an impossible goal.  As humans, we are imperfect and vulnerable to emotions, and that shit always gets us in trouble one way or another. What I am suggesting is that we take the time to consider our actions, and how they affect other people in our lives, because if you went right now, guess what?, that stupid thing you're currently doing is going to be the primary way we remember you.

The simple response to that is, "I'll be dead. What does it matter?" Well, if there are people you care about now while you're alive, imagine what they have to go through after you're gone. Blaming themselves. Defending you to your critics. Or, separating themselves as much from the memory of your miserable life as they can. If that's not anything you care about, so be it. Maybe you're not worried because you think you have time to iron this all out, so none of it will be a problem in the future. You could be right. And I hope you are.

But what if you're not?

Okay, so this didn't end up as happy as the titled claimed. Luckily, I have time to fix it...

May we all live to see one-hundred-and-five!

If you come to my party, I'll come to yours!

Let's all wear name tags, though. Just in case.