LITMIR.BIZ

      Preface

      “How old is your granddaughter?” the nice older woman asks me as I drop off my daughter at school. I’m fifty-eight years old and my daughter is three, making it a not unreasonable question. Still, her thinking that I look more like a grandfather than a father is a bit irritating, and a completely objective reminder that I appear to others more old than young. Children too sometimes approach me at playgrounds while I’m in the company of my daughter and ask if I’m her daddy, a sign of how embedded perceptions about age are in our youth-obsessed society.

      Like most people on the north side of middle age, I find my advancing age an annoying and surprising fact of life, wondering how and when this particular inconvenient truth crept up on me. As a typical baby boomer (of the generation born approximately between the mid-1940s and the mid-1960s), I’ve naturally thought of myself as somehow always being young despite the obvious signs that prove otherwise. I shunned joining the AARP when it first approached me when I turned fifty, not wanting to be part of an organization made up of old people. (I later eagerly signed up when I learned I was missing out on some great discounts.) I pride myself on not putting much stock in a person’s physical appearance, knowing it’s mostly a genetic dealing of the cards, but occasionally I fall victim to the self-loathing many people past the half-century mark experience when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. (I often try not to look.) Exactly whose body is this? I sometimes ask myself, bewildered at how I have come to occupy this not especially attractive shell. The physical signs of aging—gray and disappearing hair, need for reading glasses, spots on the skin, creaking joints, a proclivity to gain weight just by looking at food, and a host of minor ailments—are further confirmation of my lost youth, as are the ever-growing number of meds my doctor tells me I should take to stay relatively healthy. I’d like to have back my physical self from around the mid-1980s, but that’s obviously not going to happen.

      Conversely, however, I feel that my interior self has only improved with the years. The demons that plagued me as a young adult have largely disappeared, and I now enjoy a kind of emotional contentedness that I directly attribute to having spent more time on the planet. Call it experience, wisdom, or whatever you like, but living long enough tends to bring with it a palpable sense of well-being and satisfaction. With the compulsions of both my id and my ego mostly sated, a Freudian might say, my superego now has the ability to run free, a wonderful thing. Like many folks hovering around age sixty, I feel as though I’m playing with house money, with every day a gift to be appreciated or even savored. Having a little girl to care for and a family circus to help keep running is all the motivation I need to get out of bed in the morning and, without any exaggeration at all, to try to stay alive as long as possible.

      Many people at a similar stage of life are not so lucky. When I inquire, doing some informal research for this book, friends and strangers alike who are close to my age consistently tell me they have little idea what to do with the rest of their life. For them, particularly the well to do, ironically, identifying a clear meaning and purpose for their third act of life is a struggle. Their kids out of the nest and their mortgage paid, these folks no longer really have to hold nine-to-five jobs but continue to do so, not sure how else to spend the majority of their time. Golf or boating is certainly fun but hardly offers the substantive experience they require to remain happy and fulfilled individuals. Travel also is great, they add, but a life constantly on the go lacks the literal grounding that most of us need. Making more money to bestow upon children and grandchildren seems to be the primary motive in these people’s lives, a noble pursuit but with limited opportunity for personal growth and lacking any kind of spiritual component.

      While considering myself fortunate to have a mission in life at this point in the game, reconciling the distancing of one’s body from one’s mind as one ages is, to say the least, a tricky business. I believe that physical decline and psychic evolution typically follow a parallel track as one ages, much in part due to a gradual gaining of wisdom as well as an increasing awareness that it is inevitable one will eventually die. Resolving this inverse, two-ships-passing-in-the-night relationship between one’s physical being and one’s psyche (barring the onset of a debilitating cognitive disease, of course) seems to me to be one of life’s most daunting challenges, but certainly one worth taking on. Ideally, the yin of the mind should connect with the yang of the body, making them complementary, dynamic forces that create a kind of synergy for an individual. I hope to do that with whatever time I have left, and by doing so become a more complete human being.

      The commonality of this existential crisis is one of the primary reasons for my taking on the researching and writing of this book. In order to help lay a conceptual groundwork for the book, my working definition of aging revolves around the social, political, and economic issues

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