The Man in the Mirror
Earlier this year I managed to reach fifty years of age. Those of you who haven’t yet reached the half-century mark will no doubt be surprised to learn that the AARP begins sending you literature immediately upon your fiftieth birthday. And I mean immediately. Moments after you’ve blown out that fiftieth candle (which in itself is exhausting and may require a nap after the first twenty-five), your mailbox will somehow fill up with a ton of information from the AARP that simply cannot be for you. The unfortunate truth is that one-minute you’re fifty and moments later you’re using those dreaded words “senior discount.”
This all hit home for me recently when I glanced in a mirror and was horrified to see a gray haired man wearing glasses looking back. I assumed this had to be a window to a parallel universe as it most certainly couldn’t be me behind those glasses but as we all know, this is not the case. I suppose at my age I should be happy to have hair of any color, it’s just that the gray is another not so subtle reminder of my ever-advancing years.
The reading glasses are relatively new for me. Aging and denial have always gone hand in hand and I certainly spent a good amount of time ignoring the problem before finally succumbing to a pair “cheaters”. Previously I convinced myself that all that was required for me to read the newspaper was good lighting and lots of it. I briefly considered replacing all the 60-watt bulbs in the house with 300-watt versions but the fear of disobeying the little sticker in the light fixtures as well as the corresponding fear of burning down the house eventually prompted me to seek a better and ultimately safer solution. In short, I got some reading glasses.
There are plenty of other reminders that I’m not as young as I used to be. Last summer, in an effort to shed some pounds and perhaps regain some of my lost youth, I did some running at the high school track. It should be noted that here the word “running” is used when perhaps “shuffling” would be a more appropriate choice. As I neared the last one hundred yards of my mile run, my youngest son urged me to sprint to the finish line. “Are you kidding?” I said between gulps of air, “I am sprinting!”
And now a new family milestone has created another reason for me to feel old. The state of Connecticut has issued a drivers license to my oldest son. When he showed me his shiny new license (with a picture he already hates), I couldn’t help but think back to when I got my own license. Times were different back then. The test was much easier. I recall only about four minutes of driving and no parking to speak of. I should point out that contrary to popular belief (popular at least in my house), I did not take the test in a Fred Flintstone car. The reason I didn’t hate my picture was quite simply because in those ancient days licenses had no pictures and were instead mere pieces of cardboard. All of this reinforces just how long ago it happened which in turn reminds me of just how old I am. What’s worse, the very thought of the number one son driving on his own will no doubt result in a phenomenal amount of additional gray hair.
Many people opt for face-lifts or tummy tucks or other procedures designed to ward off the appearance of aging. I’ll pass on all of that. I prefer to wait for the invention of a time machine. Until then, I just realized there are other mirrors in the house. I’m sure the younger me must be in a parallel universe in one of them.
