Everyone keeps telling me it’s great to turn 50. But the honest truth is it’s sad to be a half-century old. I have to take daily medications now for gout and high blood pressure, and I can’t even read the pill bottles without my reading glasses. I can’t wear a swimsuit anymore. I’m far more willing to get dressed in front of the dog than in front of the mirror. I have mixed emotions about bacon: joy and gladness. I love it so much, in fact, that I’ve stipulated in my advance directives that it must be my last meal. If I’m being kept alive by a feeding tube it must be liquefied. If I can only have ice chips I want frozen bacon bits. You get the idea.
I used to have such a sharp mind. Then I was introduced to Google. I Google everything, which at least gives me the satisfaction of thinking I’m hipper, younger and more technologically savvy than I am. But all my gadgets have robbed me of my memory. Besides Google, I blame my memory loss mostly on my smartphone. It’s smarter than I ever was. It’s smarter than anyone I know. Because it accesses the collective smarts of human history, it’s the smartest thing in the universe. I hate it. I don’t even know my mother’s phone number. It’s just “Mom” in my “favorites” list. It’s my smartphone’s fault. It’s been said that the older you get the wiser you become, but why would I want wisdom if I can’t remember anything?
Nora Ephron described aging as one big descent—the steady spiraling down of everything: body and mind, breasts and balls, dragging one’s self-respect behind them. You reach a point where everything can no longer be held up with surgical scaffolding and the drugs of denial. I’ve reached that point. No investment of resources will stop the decline. I joined a gym, with great enthusiasm, hoping to slow the decline, but because I am equally enthusiastic about cocktails, the most I can hope for is to break even.
I hate that my gray hair makes me look distinguished but my jowls make me look disgruntled. The corners of my mouth droop. My forehead is permanently etched with horizontal lines. The bags under my eyes look like they’ve been packed for a long trip to the next 50 years. My legs are almost hairless; my ears, nose and throat have hairs popping out everywhere. My skin is pasty; my body, doughy. My muscle mass is decreasing; my stamina, ebbing. So far, getting older isn’t better—it’s fraught with peril. I’m shorter than I used to be; fatter than I ever was. Because I lack the dexterity I once had, I have to keep sharp objects at hand so I can open anything sealed in plastic packaging.
I still hate rap music, only now I hate it more than I ever did. I have no idea why I should care about Lindsay Lohan or Justin Beiber. I often repeat anecdotes and I’m grateful that most of my friends act as if they’re hearing them for the first time.
I wish I had something profound to say about reaching this “milestone,” but I don’t. After five decades, I’ve amassed the following bits of advice:
- Be good to your colon and it will be good to you.
- When in doubt, reboot.
- Fresh vegetables are always the least expensive items on the grocery list.
- You can’t be disappointed if you don’t get what you don’t ask for.
- Everything’s better with bacon.
- You know you’re old when everything is a problem.
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