Maybe you have reached the age where the massive array of candles on your birthday cake could heat a small apartment or, even worse, contribute to global warming.
The cake-top inferno signals that age is not just a number. It is THE NUMBER. There is no escaping it.
Or maybe there is.
Just recently, The Washington Post ran an item with this headline: “Feeling younger than your age may be good for your health.” So much better than: “You’re old, grumpy and while you’re watching ‘Matlock’ reruns, your major organs are giving out on you.”
Researchers say that “older adults who feel young at heart may not only live longer, but may also have more life satisfaction, lower dementia risk, reduced depression symptoms and better health in the future.”
Where did I put those bell-bottom jeans that I am pretty sure I looked stupid in back in 1970?
Anyway, a long-term study of nearly 15,000 German adults over age 40 found that participants felt, on average, 11.5% younger than their chronological age. That would bring me, at 70, to about 62.
But wait, there’s more. As we’ve gone rolling through the years, seniors have been feeling younger and younger — at least relative to their age. For someone like me, the age/reality gap might be more like 17%. That could bring me down to 58.
Don’t tell the folks at Social Security.
All of which made me consider how old I really do feel at 70. I don’t think one number can sum it up.
Luckily for me, my knees and hips feel no older than 45. They might be my best qualities.
My hair is gray, but still pretty thick, so I give it a 60. Not bad.
Speaking of hair, I see some Upper Valley women with chic, silvery hairstyles that are so becoming, I’m tempted to compliment them. Maybe silver is the new blond. But being somewhat awkward, my relative age sinks to 13 and I let the moment pass.
My eyes, without the aid of glasses, are slipping after years of proofreading bus routes, agate type and assorted newspaper copy. Corrective lenses bring me to 70. Thank goodness for big digital type and the computer’s zoom function.
My hearing has been above average, but it could be slipping slightly. I give it a 60. I am still ahead of my wife, Dede, but the disparity sometimes turns watching TV together into a battle of wills. He or she who controls the volume wins.
My mind, I feel, is merely 40. I am still as curious as a raccoon approaching a line of garbage cans. (The metaphor is apt for political news and commentary.)
In other matters I remain deeply engaged, although I surrendered at halftime when the Boston Celtics made it to the NBA Eastern Conference finals and games started at 8:30 p.m. Younger me would not have done this. But now, when the clock and I creak toward midnight, I feel 75, maybe more.
I don’t recall everything as quickly as I once did, but I can usually come up with a name or fact from the past if I get up from my chair, stomp my feet, rub my cheeks, walk around a bit, groan as if in pain, etc. It’s more of a process now.
My health is good by various measures, with one exception. My performance on a recent cardiac stress test was found wanting, so I am scheduled, against all my worst instincts and desire to hide my head in medical-grade sand, to report to DHMC next month for a catheterization procedure.
They will poke around my arteries with speaker wire and fishing line and, possibly, leave behind a stent or two. If this is not an amusing diversion that provides material for my column, I will be sorely disappointed and will expect a substantial adjustment to my medical bills.
Around here you see lots of young-ish retired folks who seem to be doing pretty well even as their homes appreciate hourly in value. I bet they feel at least 20% younger than their age. They group-sweat in our gyms, jam our restaurants and flock to entertainments in Hanover, Lebanon and White River Junction. I know there are college students nearby, but often it’s an ample wave of gray.
My generation dresses casually, and so do I. My own father never wore shorts until he was much older and spent extended time in lawn chairs, but my contemporaries stroll in ironic T-shirts and comfy sandals wherever they go. Will they wear a “Keep on Truckin’ ” logo into the nursing home?
Maybe so. They have Bob Dylan’s blessing to stay forever young, and the alternative isn’t all that great.
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.
