Gather ye rosebuds

I found gray hairs on my chest yesterday, quite a few of them. They must have been there for some time, but I hadn't noticed them before last night. This brings to the surface something I've been thinking about for awhile, perhaps even for years. My recent birthday brought it to mind more insistently, and this discovery urges me to express it, if I can. I feel it is cliche to rage against growing older in a society that priviledges youth, and in truth, I cannot completely lament it. There are some things about the experience that sadden and frustrate me, but I must confess there are others that bring blessings and contentment. I am not sure how to feel. Shall we ponder this paradox for a bit as we age a little more together?

Let me first state for the record that I have never had a positive self-image about my appearance. I never liked my hair, my weight, the color of my eyes, the shape of my face, etc. During childhood, I was neglectful of my appearance, so the self-image was most likely accurate, and it got worse for a time after high school. But in my early 20s, I made an effort to change my life for the better, including my appearance. I was never fully satisfied with the results, but I know that others found me attractive. For a few wonderful years, I was tall, dark, and handsome. I was 6'4" and thin. I had curly, dark brown hair that grew long and waved around my shoulders. I had a dark complexion and bright blue eyes. I dressed sharply and carried myself confidently, even if it was a facade; I cultivated an ability to flash a smile and flirt effectively; I went to parties and night clubs; I socialized equally with poor artists, popular athletes, and wealthy aristocrats. I was bold and charismatic. And for the first time in my life, people noticed me and liked what they saw.

I am not old now; don't get me wrong. But I diet constantly and cannot keep my weight down as I did in those halcyon days, making me more "big" than "tall." I have lost much of the hair whose rampant curls used to vex me and appeal to the ladies, and what I have not lost has turned half gray. I keep it short to mask some of its thinness, but with only partial success. I do not have many wrinkles, but the fresh crispness of youth is unmistakably gone from my features. I dress as well as I can, but my broad shoulders and barrell chest are far from the wraith-like proportions fashionable today. When people notice me now, it is not with that longing look of attraction; it is with the casual observation unavoidable when one is my heighth. And it is not just a matter of appearance. I lack the energy I once had, and I find my ability to say the right thing and drink until the wee hours diminishes with each passing day. Some men become distinguished or acquire an air of culture as they age; others just become middle-aged. I am the latter.

Still, I am happy. I love my wife. I stay home at night because I want to, not because I have to. I am good at what I do, and I have some excellent friends. I also have great memories. I wouldn't change anything I did or exchange anything I have, and I don't believe I would go back to those rowdy days of youth if I had the chance. In some ways, having a different life but possessing the memories of my former life is like actually having them both, now, simultaneously. Memory allows something from the past to exist in the present so I can be in two places at once. Whereas when I was young, I couldn't be what I am now. Youth precludes experience. It is where one acquires that experience, not where one possesses it. Certainly vitality and a wide open future are appealing, but I'm tired of possibilities and endless moving around. I'm ready for something different.

Nor do I want to associate with those who are young. Their attitudes and actions seem hopelessly naive to me now, and in truth, they are. Mine were too at that age. I just didn't know it. I get no joy from spending time with them. It doesn't make me feel young like them. Quite the opposite. It makes me more aware of how different, and older, I am. I used to want to be one of those "cool" professors. You know, the ones who have a drink with you at the pub after class and want you to call them by their first name. But now I realize that I am not like undergraduate students anymore, and pretending to be is just sad. They may still see it as "cool," but I can't think of anything more uncool. And God knows it would be disasterous if they found me attractive.

So, growing older is not so bad. Still....