by Bonnie McCune
I used to feel depressed when I read those notices in newspapers or chat with others about people’s multiple accomplishments. Compared to me, everyone in the world seems to be a raving success. They publish several novels a year, start businesses, win awards, are asked to speak at conferences and, even more, get paid for it! They run marathons in their spare time, make the “top ten” list in whatever subject interests them, say cooking or astronomy or cup-stacking competitions. Even worse, they write, call, email and blog about what they’ve done, to the point I want to avoid meetings and acquaintances, reading my mail, or communicating in any fashion, even smoke signals.
Maybe you’re challenged or energized by such information. Not I. When I was a kid, I fell for the Great American Dream. Anyone can be president or a millionaire, if you just try hard enough. I’ve learned that’s not true. Take my primary interest: writing books. Estimates are completely unreliable but range from 500,000 to a million published annually. I may have owned 10,000 books myself over the course of my life. Realistically, the odds of me or anyone selling tons of books are miniscule. In the realm of fantasy, everyone’s doing it.
I try to tell myself to be realistic, my life is going fine. But the sounds of all these folks beating their own drums and tooting their own horns makes me deaf and discouraged. I have a friend with an even more aggravated sense of inferiority than mine. Take her to a group in which friends mention their thriving children or a promotion on the job, and she refuses to see them again.
A change of attitude seems required. I’ve heard about two studies on the secret to happiness. One claims that people who are mildly self-delusional are happier than realists. The young woman sashaying across the club floor thinking all eyes are on her is more contented than the model who constantly seeks flaws in her appearance.
So, for example, if I decide I’ve written the very best novel in the world, I’m better off believing that than comparing my work to National Book Award winners.
The second study says those with low expectations are happier than individuals with high expectations. That means my approach to getting published years ago, when I assumed I’d eventually win the Noble Prize for Literature, was almost guaranteed to make me frustrated and discouraged; whereas a writer who never expected any work to appear in print is overjoyed to produce a chap book of her own poems.
On the day I began writing this piece, a new year was heralded, and I made resolutions:
* Talk myself into mild self-delusion, that I am, in fact, climbing mountains, achieving wonders, and becoming the best (if not best-selling) author in the world;
* Set my expectations in every arena very low. Rather than striving to lose 30 pounds, shoot for one. No more trying to write every day; a couple of times a week is fine. Forget hoping for world peace, a pleasant “good morning” from a neighbor’s the pinnacle of success.
Then I’ll be out bragging, tooting my own horn, and endlessly broadcasting on FaceBook, Twitter, Pinterest, whatever, with the best of ‘em.
Still, the aging process has affected me. I’ve always wondered how people know they’re old. Most of my friends continue to deny the state and despise the terms “older adult,” “senior,” “fragile-frail,” “aging.” People who have time and interest to study such things decided “old” seems to be further off the older you get. When interviewed, of those in the 75+ category, only 35% say they “feel old.”
I fell into that category until recently, when I attempted a ten-mile bike ride from one mountain town in Colorado to another. We’d visited the popular destinations frequently, although the last time was three or four years ago. Each time we’d bike to at least one distant destination. The smaller town’s altitude is just over 9000 feet, with the other about 500 feet higher; and since we live in Denver (the Mile High City), I thought I was set to go.
Although I achieved my goal, I took twice the amount of time and my heart was pounding much of the trip, something that never had occurred before. In fact, my respiration rate bordered on breathless. I wound up hopping on the free bus shuttle for the return trip, with the help of the nice driver who boosted my bike into the carrier (I’m too short to do this).
Do I blame the COVID lockdown? No, for I’ve actually increased my aerobic exercising over the months. Could the cause be my mysterious autoimmune disease? Maybe, although I don’t get breathless at any other time. Should I, horrors!, admit age is creeping up on me, altitude affects me more, and I’m not as chipper. . .or young. . .as I used to be? This seems the most likely, despite my emotional recoil at the thought.
My reaction to disturbing ideas, honed over the years, is to attempt to correct my weakness, physical or otherwise. So I’ve pulled out a small tablet, tied on a pen, and resolved to go up and down my one flight of stairs an ever-increasing number of times daily. Right now, I’m at twice, but I only started today.
My journals, notes, and notebooks are crammed full of good resolutions and to-do lists to achieve goals. I remember even in high school I’d promise faithfully each summer to study my French regularly for half-an-hour daily. In college, the registers more frequently were lists of clothes to wear and buy. Young adulthood, the records tended toward money as I saved for a European stay, then to buy needed supplies for babies. Back in the job market, the registers included positions for which I was qualified and where I’d submitted applications.
I’ll see what shakes out. On the positive side, my years have taught me not to demand perfection because I’ll always be disappointed. I’m not terribly optimistic I’ll return to the respiration level of a forty-year-old. As my physical therapist tells me, “You’re hoping to stay stable or improve a bit, not set records.” I’ll be satisfied to aim for a yeoman’s effort, whatever that is. And I suppose I’ll be forced to admit I’m getting old.
When I was in my twenties and thirties, I figured by the time I reached my sixties, I’d be decrepit and hardly able to shuffle along, let alone perform abstract thinking or take adequate care of myself. To my surprise, as the years increased, I and many of my peers have found we feel no different on the inside than we did decades ago.
Turns out, I now know that mature adults, or aging adults, or whichever term is preferred, are quite capable of dancing, running a political campaign, debating about issues, climbing mountains, or writing a book. (That’s what I’m doing post-retirement.) But what about the people around me? The clerk in the store? My neighbors? The newspaper delivery person? How do they view me? What about my contemporaries?
Seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same. According to the Aging in America Survey, findings from the Parker Health Group, conducted in 2019 and two prior years via telephone, which has been tracking public opinions, younger people continue to define “old age” at a much younger time than we whose days are greater in number. In 2019, Baby Boomers/Silent Generation (loosely defined as pre-1945 and 1946-54) were far less likely to perceive people to be “old” by their 70s, while Millennials and Gen Xers (born 1955 to 1980) are significantly more inclined than their older counterparts to perceive people to be “old” by their 70s. So the younger the individual watching and judging us well-seasoned folks, the more she might be thinking, “That guy’s too old to be doing that.”
Hold your tongue! Another question had to do with aging and ability. While the time at which a description of “old” is pertinent, that doesn’t mean others think we shouldn’t be participating Well over a majority of Americans felt 80 is not too old to engage in spirited activities that involve risk-taking, including fall in love (88%), run a marathon (72%), start a business (69%), get a tattoo (68%), even ride a motorcycle (62%)! although you couldn’t get me on one even if you paid me. Baby Boomers/Silent Generation were a bit more realistic about these doings at 80, weighing in on the average about five to fifteen percent less per category than Millennials/Gen Xers, but they all seemed eager not to eliminate the possibilities to rev their motors in a variety of ways as folks age.
More good news: over one-third of Americans identify gaining experience and wisdom as positives for the maturation process, while nearly as many (30%) credit time spent with family and friends as benefits. Embracing a new life chapter ranks a distant third on the list (12%), followed by getting close to retiring (10%). And finally, Americans seem willing to loosen their death grip on gaining wealth and consumer goods, as only one percent list that as an advantage of aging. Maybe they figure if they haven’t become rich by the time they’re old, they might as well give up that goal.
Will we begin thinking there are definite age limits to activities we find appropriate? Let’s not forget that views from the old and the young have always been dynamic and viewed from opposite ends of life’s spectrum. Lewis Carroll surely knew this 165 years ago when he composed his masterpiece inquiry about agism. It contains insights into the aging process still applicable today.
“You are old, father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
“In my youth,” father William replied to his son,
“I feared it would injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
(Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)
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Bonnie McCune is a Colorado writer and has published several novels as well as other work. Reach her at www.BonnieMcCune.com.