Realizing that referring to a seventh decade on the eve of one’s sixtieth birthday is a bit of a rhetorical stolen base, an attempt is made here to reconcile the obvious fact that the man looking back in the mirror is only 25 while his reflection is every bit of his chronological age.
This is perhaps, the essence of “consciousness”, that quality of human beings that we have (mostly improperly) applied only to our own species. This sense of “being”, the sense of consequence, the longing for immortality. Maybe the only constant throughout one’s existence is consciousness, that consciousness has no timer. Perhaps consciousness is binary, and when one passes to heavenly reward (or its opposite), a new, everlasting state takes over.
But there is no doubt, the man looking back at me has not changed one bit. His sense of who he is, where he fits, and how he relates is unchanged. Or at least that is how it seems. While elements of outward behavior have changed (improved, MOSTLY), those things do not comprise the inimitable consciousness.
That he takes longer to get words out of his mouth is immaterial. That the process of moving from the floor to standing upright looks like the reverse of the death throes of a Star Wars AT-AT means nothing. That there is a disturbing amount of hair growing from heretofore less hirsute sites, and all of it grey to white, doesn’t mean a thing. The eyes…the “windows on the soul”…those are the same. There is an elderly woman who exercises with me at the Y thrice weekly who moves haltingly, whose remaining skin and viscera hangs on her unevenly, but when she walks across the floor to get her weights for strength training, at whom I am unable not to glance. It is her eyes. They are stunning, and my guess is that there is no difference in how they look now from when I was born. And I guess that behind those eyes, an unaged consciousness is at work.
When thinking, pondering, or any process deeper than instinctual behavior is mulled over, the same synapses fire. The world is processed as it has always. There are myriad mental software applications that have been layered upon that foundational level of processing that result in behavior, but the when it is just me and the mirror, I am 7, 18, 25, 47, or 59. Same guy.
Do not mistake this discourse on consciousness as a statement of stasis. Quite the contrary. Fifty nine and 51/52 years of learning and growth and wisdom have been added to the processor, with the past 18 (those shared with my inamorata, Catherine) years dedicated to a sometimes dizzying growth. That you cannot teach an old dog new tricks is utterly false news.
Death, or at least the death of people related to or connected with other people, was not much of a factor in my life up until 18 years ago. This was a consequence of both my own self-centeredness and the simple fact that so few people in my life had died, or had had important people in their lives die. Hitching my wagon to Mrs. Murphy 17 and 11/12 years ago changed all that, as her husband’s death six years earlier not only created the room for me, but also the opportunity for me to really think hard about a death that had been so tragic. Add to this equation the fact that Catherine had extensive training in grief counseling, and the stage was set for a process of my confronting death and grieving head on. When that face stares back in the mirror with the smug self-assurance of there being no change, it is this growth that undercuts it most effectively. Death and grieving do not intimidate me anymore, quite the opposite. As a result of Catherine’s careful nudging over the years, great change occurred.
Just the other day, I was sitting at lunch in a club I belong to in town, and the man next to me was familiar from several of my monthly sporting clay outings with other club members. Having never seen him at the lunch table, I noted this fact.
He answered, “Well, my wife died a few weeks ago, and I really needed to get out of the house.”
The pre-July 2007 Bryan would have found a way to extend condolences and then change the subject, out of fear of discomfiting both of us. The one at the table instead, rode to the sound of the guns. I spent the next twenty minutes or so with him, talking about her, her sickness and death, and how he was feeling. I just wrote him an email telling him I’d be at lunch on Monday and would love to sit with him.
These events are not recounted as a means to signal virtue, although I can imagine some seeing it that way. They are recounted to undercut any suggestion that while it is true that when looking in the mirror, a young, borderline handsome (though a bit pudgy) man looks back…that man is unchanged. Nothing could be further from the truth. The 35 years between 25 and 60 have done fair job in rounding off some of the rough edges, much like the changes I saw in my own father over time, in which he became an old softy grandfather before my very eyes. I hope for the same.
Born in 1965
For the longest time, I thought I wanted to own a 1965 Ford Mustang, and as I climbed the socioeconomic ladder, that desire shifted to a 1965 Mercedes Benz 230SL (which is sadly, far above the limits of my current socioeconomic ladder). Having a car from the year I was born seemed like a thing I wanted, but then I grew up.
Of late, I have had the bug to own a vintage watch manufactured in the same year I was (or at least 2/3 of me), and I pulled the trigger the other day on this dandy, purported to be a 1965 Omega Seamaster De Ville Automatic.
At dinner last night as I stared at it, it occurred to me why I was so drawn to it. The plain truth is that it reminded me of the watch I remember my grandfather wearing. I have no idea what his watch was or where it is, but the simplicity, and general features and colors resembled this, and that was enough for me.
I dearly hope one of the girls—should they decide to reproduce—has a boy, as someday I want to spend time with a little nugget talking about each of my watches while making sure they know that someday, they will be his.
This Thursday 27 June, I will be 60, and I will dine in splendor here in our wonderful little town with Catherine and Hope, our elder daughter (Dash 2 is running a sailing program in the Caribbean) the night before. On the big day, bother Pat and his bride Stephanie (Suh-Suh-Stephanie) will arrive for a weekend visit that features our annual crab fest.
I cannot imagine being more content.
With a bit of luck you have a good 20 years of vigorous health in front of you. From what I read 80 is kind of the knee of the curve in health and strength.
Take full advantage of those years. I have lived those years and now will be 90 in November. I am full into the "I can't do that anymore" years.
Learn to fly an airplane.
Learn to ski
Learn to scuba
Sky Dive
Go live!
I just turned 77. Byran believe me it gets worse. You know all those memes about geezers? They're all true.
And God Said "Let There Be A 65 Mustang"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLeQ3zMs_H8
An God Saw That It Was FAST.