Agism
I've been thinking a lot about age lately. The triggers seem to be everywhere. Part of this is probably caused by my recent revelations that I may have embarked on my life's dream a bit too late to have the success that might have been mine (and given the deafening silence from editors south of the border, my odds of career change have dropped a titch this week). Part of it comes from discussions with people much younger than me (and you know who you are) who are approaching birthdays with some trepidation. Part comes from having had a fairly elderly but bright and interesting man appear on my office doorstep looking for a job in my lab. Age just came into my mind as I wrapped up a long meeting with a clever young student who was trying to explain some interesting perceptual effects to me by suggesting that people of my generation had had fairly limited exposure to technology compared to his generation. I resisted the temptation to swat him on the ear, but only because I couldn't afford the lawsuit.
In lots of ways, I don't mind getting older. I don't mind knowing that I'm more than halfway through my life. I've done a helluva lot with those years. I don't mind that I don't really have to go through the high trauma of finding a mate, planning a family, plotting a career. I don't mind that the worst of my midlife crises are behind me (I hope!). I don't mind that some things that used to be very mysterious (like my own reactions to things) now seem fairly straightforward and obvious.
There are other things I do mind. I mind that my sense of taste and smell are not quite what they once were. I remember a line from a John Updike novel (I think it was a Rabbit Angstrom book) about how older people ate more because nothing tasted quite as good as they felt that it should. I mind that no matter how long I stay in bed, I get out of bed feeling less than rested. I mind that there is not a day that goes by when some part of my body doesn't ache. I don't mind that my sexual performance is as reliable as ever, but I do mind that I leave such 'performances' feeling somehow less satisifed. I mind that the world seems smaller and less surprising. I mind that I'm not as patient as I once was. I mind that I become confused more easily. I mind that I give up on hard mental challenges more quickly than I used to.
To me, late middle age seems to consist of a slight detachment from sensual pleasure -- it's there but you can't feel it quite as well so you have to rely more on memory. It's a bit like making love while wearing a condom. It still feels good and you know it is but the searing, screaming edge of sensation is a wee bit blunted.
I'm waiting (with whatever patience I can muster) for the wisdom part to begin.
In lots of ways, I don't mind getting older. I don't mind knowing that I'm more than halfway through my life. I've done a helluva lot with those years. I don't mind that I don't really have to go through the high trauma of finding a mate, planning a family, plotting a career. I don't mind that the worst of my midlife crises are behind me (I hope!). I don't mind that some things that used to be very mysterious (like my own reactions to things) now seem fairly straightforward and obvious.
There are other things I do mind. I mind that my sense of taste and smell are not quite what they once were. I remember a line from a John Updike novel (I think it was a Rabbit Angstrom book) about how older people ate more because nothing tasted quite as good as they felt that it should. I mind that no matter how long I stay in bed, I get out of bed feeling less than rested. I mind that there is not a day that goes by when some part of my body doesn't ache. I don't mind that my sexual performance is as reliable as ever, but I do mind that I leave such 'performances' feeling somehow less satisifed. I mind that the world seems smaller and less surprising. I mind that I'm not as patient as I once was. I mind that I become confused more easily. I mind that I give up on hard mental challenges more quickly than I used to.
To me, late middle age seems to consist of a slight detachment from sensual pleasure -- it's there but you can't feel it quite as well so you have to rely more on memory. It's a bit like making love while wearing a condom. It still feels good and you know it is but the searing, screaming edge of sensation is a wee bit blunted.
I'm waiting (with whatever patience I can muster) for the wisdom part to begin.
posted by Colin at 3:48 PM
3 Comments:
I'm not "much" younger than you. And I feel like I enjoy the sensual pleasures more, not less than when I was younger. I'm more skilled at certain things, too, but that's another story.
Ah, yes... those young, perky students. I remember vividly the day that one of my 18-year old students (she was terribly perky... and perky in places a mother of three tends NOT to be perky...) asked how old I was. Her reply, when I revealed that I had just turned 30, was: "Gee, Kate, you don't look anywhere near THAT old!"
Hi Nina, yes the skill. I remember a conversation I had with a lawyer who was in his early 30s. I explained that his cognitive peak had passed him about 8-10 years earlier. He looked horrified, and said "yes, I know, but I know so much more case law now!" Yes, we do have more skill, restraint, control, experience and all of those things can enhance our experiences, but they don't substitute for fresh, raw youth, do they? I'd say they're different, but not better. Kind of like the difference between the taste of the grapes, sunshine, harvest, soil, that jumps into your mouth on the first sip of Beaujolais Noveau compared to the deep and subtle nuances of a well-aged California cabernet. It takes more experience to 'get' the cab, but it's lost the verve and life of the freshly sprung grapes of the Beaujolais. But I wonder how different men and women are. We men seem to peak in so many ways when we're very young and then we become slow, stupid, fat and soft. Women just seem to get better and better and better. I envy.
Hey Kate. Your story reminded me of my two oldest kids, when I was a bit more than 30 (just a little bit) and they were actual kids as opposed to the frightening proto-adults they seem to have become. I was steamed at one of them for something she'd done (I forget what) and she had run off in a stream of tears. I overheard her older sister say "Don't worry. Dad's so old he doesn't know what he's doing anymore."
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