In the last year, the first number in my age became a 5. Now, I have not had the reaction one might think I’d have. I didn’t run out and get my lips bee-stung and while I can comb my hair with a towel, I have yet to put in an order for Propecia. It’s just getting older and it’s not too bad as long as you don’t mind permanently sore hips and the fact that you may end up in the ER if you sneeze while doing math in your head. Otherwise, I’m good.
We have so much more information these days than when my dad became first-number-5. When he did that back in the late 1990s, his doctor probably introduced his forefinger to old Mr. Rectum and told him to keep up his calcium levels. If such tests were done in the early 1970s, I’m sure the doctor even put out his cigarette to give a similar test to my grandfather. Nowadays, medical advancements help us avoid some terrible outcomes that were otherwise a fact of life for older people. And there seems to be a much more informed online peanut gallery in terms of how to age well. We now have several thousand people telling us how to be a 22-year-old 60-year-old and a 30-year-old retiree.
As far as I can tell, I should eat loads of spinach, one steak a week, chicken like it’s going out of style, and fill my mornings with flax, grapefruit, vitamins B, C, D, magnesium, and zinc. In between shovelling those things into my mouth, I need to run, lift, do palates, and as many push-ups as I can without dying on the floor. I can have one soda a year, one beer a decade, and if I so much as look at tobacco my face is going to explode.
No problemo.
Along with those things for my physical health, I am just boggled by how much I need to do for my mental stability as I age. I should forgive. I should forget. If I don’t forgive and forget, my brain will be wracked with bitterness and I’ll soon just start forgetting, an eventually for which I might not be forgiven. I should not live in my youth. I should show gratitude, vulnerability, veracity, enjoy my evidently epic wisdom, and be mindful of everything – even people who annoy me. I should be true to myself, but also try new things. I should have a routine, but not forget spontaneity. Running out for a beer on a whim at 9:30 on a Tuesday night will apparently keep me young. The problem is, my true self doesn’t like to try new things. To run out for a beer at 9:30 would require detaching my ass from my couch and I can’t do that without making loud noises. Maybe the best thing I can do for my mental health is stop reading about how to take care of my mental health. Maybe I’ll have my one drink of the decade. But not at 9:30.
The great joke here is that I could do everything from paragraphs 3 and 4 and still dislocate my clavicle by an overaggressive shampooing. When you get to the 5-something age, you hear about others your age who won’t get to go onto the 6-something age. And the reasons are usually so arbitrary that it leads you to believe – correctly – that the fact that you even got to a 5-something age is a matter of pure and unadulterated luck. It’s like winning a lottery, but with hemorrhoids, heartburn, and a stomach which has yet to cast its final ballot on dairy.
The advice is never what we want to hear, is it? I am no doubt happier living a healthy life of exercise and good food, but just once I would love to be advised to start the day with a double shot of bourbon. I’d like a scientifically-supported article to tell me that the best way to avoid stomach pains in my 5-years is with a regimen of ham sandwiches and pretzels dipped in cheese. But alas, those comforts are for the 1 through 3-something folks. And by the time they reach my age, they’ll have a whole new set of age rules and guides to follow.
Hell, maybe it’ll be pretzels dipped in cheese.
