How Old Am I Again?

Considering how to move through the time that's left

The other day a friend who is in his 70s said, “I’m so old now, when I drop something, I really have to seriously consider how much I need that thing. If it’s not that much. I don’t bother.”

He was kidding, I hope. Yet, there’s some truth to that thought.

On my walk with the dog early today, I spotted a tree I’ve walked past many times. I think it is a kind of birch, but not certain. What I notice this time is the bark and its myriad spots. Like age spots. The tree is big. It’s been around for some time. Not sure how long birch trees live, but this tree, birch or not, must be at least 100 years old. Many of the trees in our neighborhood are long-life trees. This one seems in the same category.

How much longer does that tree have? How much longer do I have?

For the next hour of my walk, I think a lot about aging.

In modern terms, I’m not really old. Sixty-seven in a few months. I’m a baby. Sort of. But then I consider my family history, it’s a little daunting. Many died in their 70s. My father, my mother. However, there were a few, sociologists have named The Smashers (Michelangelo, Bach, Satchel Paige who pitched in the majors at the age of 59) who lived a long life for any era. Some made it well into their 90s. So which genes did I get? I’m going to find out whether I want to or not. Yes, longevity is not only based on heredity. But still, it looms large.

At the street corner on my walk, flowers that had once been in full bloom are falling into their September phase—wilted, tired, dying. I take a photo that shows a couple that are hanging on. I need to ask my wife, the gardener in this household, if these are perennials or annuals. Will they return next year? Will they keep living? I pick the flowers and wonder about what they, if they could think, are thinking now as they fade away. What will we do with the remaining days? How can we make those days the best they can be?

And I wonder about me. What will I do with the next 10 years, 15, or if I’m lucky, 20?

There have been a lot of books over the last few years that champion the process of aging. A recent article in The New Yorker noted a few books that prove how we are rethinking aging, books from a decade or more ago through today.

Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck.”

Mary Pipher’s “Women Rowing North: Navigating Life’s Currents and Flourishing as We Age.”

Marc E. Agronin’s “The End of Old Age: Living a Longer, More Purposeful Life.”

Alan D. Castel’s “Better with Age: The Psychology of Successful Aging.”

Ashton Applewhite’s “This Chair Rocks: A Manifesto Against Ageism.”

The New Yorker made the point that no one wants to “disparage old age” anymore when the truth is old age for many of us can be rough. From the annoying—bladders emptying often, hair in the ears—to more serious problems like dementia. The reality is that growing old is not always about “flourishing.” Many times, it’s like those flowers. It’s about “withering.”

Halfway through my walk, I shake off that thought and consider my options. I can just say, “screw it,” and not think about the coming years, or I can be more proactive and consider what I can do with the time I have left. Complaining about an elbow pain or forgotten thought is pointless and it’s also unbecoming. No one wants a cranky old guy walking the neighborhood. What I could do is simply make peace with aging. Here is what you hear from so many: If my kids are happy, I’m reasonably healthy, financially okay, and satisfied with most of my “accomplishments,” then that is all I need. Well, it may be true that with old age brings some level of not having to prove yourself. Still, it’s not enough to invigorate the soul and sustain you through the last years. Montaigne said, in old age, “our desires incessantly grow young again. We are always re-beginning to live.” This is not to say advocating a “positive” attitude toward aging—what many of the aforementioned books suggest—will mean that everything will be okay. Nonsense. The key, it seems to me, is to keep on living just as you hopefully have most of your life—loving, learning, moving, thinking, reading, singing, dancing. If you haven’t been doing at least one these, then start. You’ll perform them with less prowess than before, slower, or awkwardly, but the only alternative is to not do any of this. Not a good option. You should only stop when you’re dead.

After circling the park and taking the road back home, I wonder aloud, “What can I do with these last years that will fuel my spirit, my emotions, my head and heart, my aging bones?” I don’t have the definitive answer for that yet. But I have some pretty good ideas. I believe there are infinite possibilities.

Here’s what I know.

At soon-to-be 67, I don’t feel as good as I did at 50, and I’m pretty sure I won’t feel all that great at 82, if I make it. But I walk most days—a golf course or around the block—I try to eat reasonably well, and I’m an outside kind of guy. I get my vitamin D. But despite what the calendar says, in my mind I’m somewhere around 40, and that’s a good age to keep on going, to make changes that stick, to refuel the soul, to keep the body working. So, I’m going with what age my mind believes I am, not necessarily what my body tells me far too often.

At the walkway in front of my house, I stop for a moment to look at the beautiful garden my wife has created in our yard. There are still a few flowers showing their summer colors. That gives me hope. I smile. The dog and I take the driveway to the backyard, and I accidentally drop her leash.

“Do I really need that?” I ask myself, thinking of my friend’s comment.

I bend for it. “Yeah, I need it. So does the dog.” I grab it, and watch the dog run to the back gate. I’m home. She’s home. And we’ll give it another go tomorrow

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David W. Berner’s personal narrative about the process of growing old, Daylight Saving Time will be released in the summer of 2024 from Collective Ink Books.