Dreams of the Aging Man

Smiling at what never was, and never could be, but flourishes in the imagination

Photo by Karyme França

When I was young, I wanted to play my guitar in front of thousands at the Fillmore East. The dreams of a long-haired, CSN&Y-listening, Woodstock-inspired kid.

That didn’t happen.

But those aspirations, even the highly unlikely ones, gave me a level of hope for something beyond my safe, suburban, working-class family life. Of course, when we dream at a young age, we have no idea how we are going to reach those dreams, no clue how to proceed, and no knowledge that some dreams are fantasies. Sometimes, however, the ignorance is just what we need. What we don’t know can’t stop us.

When we grow up, those dreams, many times, fade into the reality of life. This is not to say we don’t stop dreaming, or that we give up on the dreams. We just make adjustments. I wanted to be a writer when I was 18, my first book came out when I was in my 40s. And those musical dreams? Well, I played in a band in a lot of bad bars for a number of years. That counts, right? Then in my 60s, I recorded a few songs that I wrote, and they found themselves on Spotify. It’s not the Fillmore East, but hey, dreams can be modified, right?

I think about this after reading a wonderful piece in The New Yorker. Funny and poignant. It was about what have come to be known as “middle age fantasies”—those little moments that remind us of some deep desire—old and new and repressed—and those that linger just below the surface: the attractive nurse during your yearly checkup who shows a keen (yet slightly forced) interest in your creative work, the unexpected flight layover that sends you to the once-forbidden first-class lounge to sip a “small-batch mezcal,” and the random meeting with Bradley Cooper who begs you to allow him to turn your unpublished manuscript into a blockbuster movie. All these and others are the dreams of the aging man, or any man, for that matter. The piece was humorous, but at the edges, it hit quite close to the bone.

So, what do I dream now? What has changed or not changed since those young-man dreams, the ones that once seemed ignorantly reachable and yet eventually so obviously unattainable?

The New Yorker piece clearly makes a distinction between dreams and fantasies, yet I think they are, at least at my age, somewhat interchangeable. And so, I offer a list of current dreams/fantasies—things that will never happen but, oh, if they would! Not the respectable “wants” for my family or my finances, or even my career, not that pedestrian stuff. These are real fantasies, the ones that will never . . . ever . . . happen.

But, ah, I can dream.

— A 32-inch waist. Now, that’s a fantasy! I last had a waist that little when I was, maybe, 20 years old. My body is not made for this kind of thinness. Yes, I can lose a few pounds, and I’ll likely always be trying, but the waist of say, Ryan Reynolds? Fantasy.

— Single-digit golf handicap. Huh! Many years ago, I was, for a brief time, a 9-handicapper. (For those who are not golfers, the handicap signifies your relative mastery of the game. The lower the better. Single-digit handicappers are rare. Most players carry a 20-handicap or higher.) The older I get, the farther away this fantasy gets. Tennis, anyone?

— Live in an old, rustic stone home on a remote island off the Irish/Scottish/Welsh coast. This has every aspect of a full-blown “fantasy.” The weather is often brutal. The mainland is hard to access. Likely no one will want to live there with me because, well, it’s too isolated, lonely. But isn’t that the point? It feels romantic, glorious, and, yes, a dream that will never happen.

— Stand on the moon. The moon has always been a fascination for me. I track its phases, I gaze at it, I wonder what it would be like to see Earth from that satellite sphere.

— Own and operate a used bookstore in a quaint village near a UNESCO City of Literature—Prague, Iowa City, Edinburgh. Yes, I’m out of my mind. Owning and running a book shop is not what the fantasy suggests. Ask anyone who runs one. I once considered (albeit insanely) buying a used bookstore in Scotland. I sent emails. Talked to the owner. But I knew, deep down, it was all a crazy idea. Although there is a Airbnb in Wigtown, Scotland that is a bookstore. The idea is to live above it and run the shop during the time you stay there. I continue to put my name on the waiting list.

I have other “fantasies,” I’m sure. Ones I would have to think hard about to discover. They are not in the same category as “longings” or “goals” or “wants.” Fantasies are beyond these. They’re fun to consider, these never-reachable unrealities, and if they were ever truly attainable, well, that would ruin everything. Man is meant to dream. Wishing on a star, looking at the clouds is what makes us fully human. Desire, even if never satisfied, is an important element of life. Our fantasies help us look forward, keep us positive, and in our aging years, give us a place to dream.

Still, I’m wondering if when my next flight at O’Hare is delayed by hours, if the airline just might consider sending me off to that special first-class lounge, where I can lean back in leather, and sip on that small-batch mezcal.

Ah, what a magnificent fantasy.

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David W. Berner is the author of several award-winning books of fiction and memoir. His memoir Daylight Saving Time: The Power of Growing Older is available now for pre-order.