I turned forty-ten a couple months ago.
There.
I still can hardly bring myself to acknowledge that sinister number “5” that wants to push its way into the front end of my particular age bracket – the evil digit that signifies another looming decade ahead. Or one that has past.
Whatever.
I have noticed that some of the other guys that I work with seemed to breeze right past the big five-0 in their shiny new convertibles (we have had a lot of that going on around here lately) without a second glance in the rear-view. I surveyed some of them in hopes of finding someone to commiserate with, yet nobody is quite as anxious as I am.
“I still feel 18!” exclaims the 53-year old head of sales and marketing, who is incredibly fit and trim and annoyingly happy.
“I never really thought about it.” says another oblivious 51-year old executive.
Denial is what I’m calling it. They’re all in denial.
I, on the other hand, spent months gearing up for fifty, fueled by incessant talks with my wife about teeth-whitening and male hormone-boosting therapy. And then there was the actual therapy. I kept pressing my hands to the side of my face, squeezing back the skin whenever I looked into a mirror to see how much younger I could look. “Who is that guy?” I would ask the sad, wrinkled, man staring back at me with the bulging eyes.
Really, I am starting to see why these people spend money on plastic surgery.
My boss, the Chairman of my company, called me on that day. He wished me a happy birthday, and then in a very somber tone he added, “You know, it’s okay to start slowing down now. You’re at that age…” His voice trailed off, like he forgot what he was supposed to say next. I took it as an awkward birthday wish, like I was now joining him in some elite, special club that other, younger and better-looking managers were not privy to. And then I laughed it off. Ha! Sure, boss! What, am I going to break my hip and ride around in a scooter now? No worries!
But the truth is, I am tired. And aching sometimes. And not sleeping so great. And there is this inexplicable build up of wax in my ears.
I remind my wife that a couple centuries ago forty-five years was the average life span for a man. Maybe we were not meant to live this long, to be forced to cram our youthful bounding souls into a decrepit and declining body.
I decided, really, that I need to take better care of myself. To slow down some, like my boss said. To get a blood test. To see how I’m doing. I’m not going to be any good to anyone if I’m feeling exhausted all the time.
Like every other guy, I hate going to the doctor’s, getting probed and prodded like that. But they found a couple of little things that I am taking care of. Why pretend any more?
I also backed off of some volunteer stuff. I am only working on the few things that I really want to do the most. It’s still alot. I’m also carving out time during the day to balance these things out better. I am giving myself a break, not pushing so hard. Not acting like I can do everything.
I am going to get enough sleep.
I am going to be saying “no” more than I used to. I’m protecting myself. So that I will have something to give back.
Photo by Nancy Rosback.
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