On Turning Fifty

I recently turned fifty years old. For some, the event might prove troublesome, provoking a bit of existential grief, perhaps a few dark nights of the soul. It could even lead to, God forbid, a "mid-life crisis", a term I surround with quotes since I believe it is a modern concept used to justify what previous generations termed "asinine behavior." I could buy a sports car, leave my wife and take up with some young babe ("good luck", I can hear her saying), or perhaps quit my job, move to some Caribbean island, and take up surfing, and justify it all by claiming I was going through a "mid-life crisis". The rest of the world would nod and say, "well, yes, it's too be expected. He just turned fifty, after all."

None of that for me thanks. On the contrary, I find myself, at fifty, to be more content than ever. I am of late what I can fairly describe as serene. I wouldn't describe myself as deliriously happy - and that's a good thing. I have no desire anymore to live at the extremes of any emotion, good or bad. I suppose I once had as much teenage angst as anyone, but, if so, it's been so long I couldn't hope to describe what it felt like. I was once madly in love with my wife, and I mean madly. During the first few months of our life-long love affair (I hate the word 'relationship') lo so many years ago, I often couldn't eat or sleep; the tuning fork inside me was pitched high and vibrating at an alarming rate. If you had asked me at the time I would have told you I couldn't be happier. Now, I'm not sure that same emotional state would make me happy - more like miserable. Truth be told, I'm fairly certain I could never again reach such a feverish state, and thank goodness for that. (I should state now, less you misunderstand, that I still love my wife very much, but deeply, not madly. Deeply is better, at least at this age. Funny how that works.)

So I'm content, which I'm sure you're all thrilled to hear - I know you were worried. As for my own worries, I have a few, as, of course, we all do. My chief one regards how long I'll be allowed to hang around this mortal realm; how long until "the distinguished thing" (as Henry James put it on his death bed) arrives. This is not a new concern; it's rather long-standing, in fact. My dad died at sixty-three; his dad at fifty-two; his dad at sixty - not a great track record, so you can perhaps understand my being slightly preoccupied by the matter. On the other hand, my mom is seventy-three and is in terrific shape: still active, healthy, and happy. Her dad lived well into his eighties, on his own, in his own little apartment. He shopped for himself, cooked for himself, and took the bus to the racetrack a few times a week. So, clearly, I'm hoping I take after my mom in this area. (Actually, it would good to take after her in all areas - she's one in a million.) Whatever comes, I try to put off the inevitable for as long as possible: I quit smoking twenty-three years ago, I hit the gym each morning, I take a two-mile walk each day after lunch, and I eat sensibly, as sensibly as possible while still enjoying the food - a good meal is one of life's finer pleasures and I'm not ready to give them up completely. As for drinking, when I was younger I used up my quota; mine and a few other people's. But now I'm a virtual tea-totaler. I drink a few martinis and about twelve beers a year. Considering the recent studies showing that a few drinks a day is actually good for you, I'd probably be better off drinking more.

Anyhow, I'm hoping I can live into my eighties or even nineties. Even if I'm so fortunate, how long can one be active? I suppose there are people in their eighties who lead active lives, but clearly most have slowed down considerably by that point. For myself, I'm hoping I can be active until the age of seventy-five. Upon retirement, which I think is still about six years away so long as my investments hold up, I'd like to start travelling again, particularly to Europe. We'd hopped across the pond fairly regularly from 1995 until 2001. We spent a week in London in 1995, four days in Rome and a week in Florence in 1997, eleven days in Paris in 1998, and fourteen days in Salzburg, Vienna, and Venice in 2001. The 9/11 came and we decided to take a break for awhile. And then we got the cats, Bubba and Biscuit. Bubba, my best buddy, is gone now, but we still have the little Biscuit boy, and that presents a real problem for taking long trips out of town. Biscuit is scared of the whole world except for me and my wife, so whoever takes care of him when we're away always reports back that he won't get near them and he refuses to eat. As a result, whenever we're away from him, even for just a long weekend, we feel guilty - especially me. While I'm off enjoying myself, I picture Biscuit hiding underneath the bed, starving, wondering why we abandoned him. As a result, my own enjoyment is diminished. Silly, I know, but nonetheless true.

Anyhow, long trips to Europe are off until Biscuit is gone. He's six now so if he lives until he's, say, fifteen, that means we can begin taking long trips around the time I'm sixty. I hope I'm still eager to travel by then. I've been immersed in Joseph Epstein's writings (see the side panel under "Books I've read in 2008") for the past month, and he claims he lost the urge to travel once he hit a certain age. I hope that doesn't happen to me. I love travelling and we were getting better and better at it. I love even the preparation for it, the research and the reading involved beforehand in order to get the most out of the trip. I'd study travel guides, histories, and maps, of each of the cities we were about to see. Then I'd create an itinerary for us for each day, keeping the last couple of days in each city free so we could free-lance. There is no feeling so free as being in a strange city, on your own, where no one knows you, cut off from your familiar surroundings. Many people find this intimidating; I find it exhilarating.

Until then, as I started this post off by saying, I'm content. I can read, watch movies and sports, take the occasional short trip, spend time with family. I seem to have recovered my golf game last year, so I'm taking pleasure in the sport once more after three or four years of frustration (I realized, due to back problems, that I'd begun to sway in front of the ball by the time I'd reach impact, protecting my back. As a result I kept hitting weak little fades, or (horror!) nasty shanks. Once I realized what I was doing I concentrated on a single swing thought - keep your head behind the ball - and presto! The ball was going long and straight again.) I also like trying new things, learning new things. I've become a student of the stock and commodities markets, which I'm hoping will pay off down the line. I'm blogging now, of course. I've written two screenplays - both of which I'm not sure of the quality of, though I think the second one has potential. I haven't done anything with them though; they both sit gathering dust while I work out my next story in my head. Of course, not everything works. I tried to learn the guitar a few years ago but it was a dismal failure - it would take years of constant practice and I just don't have the patience. So, too, was my watercolor adventure: I'd look at my finished product and think of a comment a character in one of Peter Devries' novels once made. I paraphrase but it was on the order of, while he didn't have anything against modern art, he did think one should see some progression in the arrangement of the paint from the artist's palate to the canvas; you should be able to distinguish them. Well, with mine, it was difficult.

But the key, for me, is to stay interested, keep trying new things, and keep new finding ways of looking at old things. I'm a bit of an old thing now myself, but, as I begin my second half-century, I'm not quite spent yet.