guff

Getting Old(er)

I am on a cusp in my personal chronology. I’ve been here for a while now, and likely won’t pass beyond it for a few more years. It’s a strange place: it doesn’t put me quite at the point I can claim as middle age; it refuses to offer much that could ready a passage from the remnant mindset of those youthful ideals; it’s sometimes painful, both from a psychological concern and in the creaks and aches my body is taking on; and it’s a period I’ve had discussed with me very little. Would have been nice if it had been well provided for by a full library of reference works to read up on. However, there’s some markers I’ve stumbled upon that delineate this territory, in case you’re in search of a boundary.

I recently cracked a molar to the point where a small piece broke away. The cause was not from slipping off a bike, or having a player of the opposing team run an elbow into my jaw, or even a case of falling flat on my face while reaching for the television remote. No, it was from chewing on a slice of bread. That’s right, a cracked tooth due to biting into a baked good. That it was French bread is not a helpful addendum to the story. When I look at the section that snapped off, it’s not a blackened and rot-worn segment. I apparently lost a filling, and the tooth just decided to break around the remaining gap. Not a young person tale, nor an aged one. Hard to explain to most dentists as well, I assume.

At this longetivity crossing, I find it simple to recall what it was like to be a kid, yet look with grim, patronizing amazement over all the things they don’t seem to know or care about. And (if you’re Christian and celebrate the holidays) remember the way you used to react waking Christmas morning to the anticipation of presents? Maybe you still get this way, but then you should have stopped reading this a while back. People my age wake on December 25, and after the first twenty minutes spent regaining consciousness, tend only to desire it come to an end quickly. Another possible signal light is that I’m getting used to the crackling noise generated by flexing my joints. Or maybe I’m just learning to ignore the fact that hip replacement is in my future.

This… thing I’m balancing on. Is it a place, or a passage? I can’t say, but it totters at the center of a seesaw of aging, from where I locate myself as the young, still-working-the-whole-mess-out adult I was, and the further along, sometimes nap-inclined and crotchety fellow I now am. Somewhere on the way to here the two mixed into an undefinable and partly edible broth. There’s a warm and subtle equilibrium that works upon this soup, which I’ve come to vaguely appreciate.

It’s starting to feel like I’m becoming an old person, but I don’t seem to mind. In fact, I kind of enjoy it. I’m guessing that impression doesn’t last long.