If beauty is in the eyes
of the beholder then it
appears that estimates of
an individual’s age operate in
the same manner.
Despite just having passed
the halfway point of my
seventieth decade, I have yet
to feel old _ at all. In many
respects I feel better now
than I did years ago when I
did absolutely nothing at all
to keep in any semblance of
decent physical condition.
I still run, walk, and, when
weather permits, do quite a
bit of demanding work up
here on the hill.
But pictures and mirrors
and the perceptions of others
have a not so subtle way of
reining in any disillusions one
might have as to the realities
of mortal life. Fact is, as one
ages one’s exterior belies the
biological truth.
The other day I was changing
for a run at the gym. I
gave up running the roads
several years ago because
of a tricky lower back and
irascible knees. My locker is in
the boys’ locker room. I share
a bank of lockers with several
other geezers. I am there for
two reasons: no lockers were
available in the mens’ locker
room and, perhaps the best
reason, lockers in the boys’
locker room are cheaper. I
never shy from a better deal.
Most of the time I have
the place to myself because
I get there pretty early in the
morning. On this day I had
some things to take care of
early on, so the run waited
until later afternoon. As I was
slipping on my sneakers, two
little boys came out of the
shower and one looked up
at me and said, ``This is the
boys’ locker room!’’ Cheeky
little bugger! I smiled, looked
down at him, and explained
that indeed several men did
have lockers in their hallowed
space as well. I tied my
laces and started for the door
leading to the adjacent locker
room. As I was closing the
door, I overheard the rascal
who questioned my presence
say to his friend, ``He was old,
at least one hundred years
old.’’ I resisted the temptation
to set him straight. I really
wanted to give the kid a piece
of my one-hundred-year-old
mind, but closed the door
behind me and went upstairs
to run. Clearly, it is still on my
mind.
I have been wondering
what I thought when in the
company of ancients at that
age. Nothing comes to mind.
However, looking at the situation
from the inside out, it is
clear that people’s perceptions
(and misconceptions) determine
how they act in certain
situations. I have noticed lately
that more young people tend
to refer to me as sir when, for
instance, opening a door for
me, or when I check out at the
supermarket counter. I do not
mind the sir stuff at all. I am
aware that it connotes respect
as well as a polite recognition
of advanced age. Since
the decline of civility in our
culture is but another symptom
of the moral barbarism
that characterizes the times,
any and all vestiges of a more
civilized past are welcome. I
also do not mind being asked
if I am eligible for a senior
discount, since a bargain is a
bargain and I will take it any
way I can get it.
One of the lessons of my
locker room encounter is that
whether or not one is suffering
the inevitable ill effects of
the aging process, perception
rules the day and reality
counts for little. The kid did
not know that behind that
beard lurked a sixty-six year
old just back from a threeday
cross country ski trip to
Canada, preceded by a ten
day African excursion, now to
be topped off by a three-mile
indoor track run. Best of all, it
is a hell of a good story to tell.
Meanwhile, I plod through
time ignoring the outer trappings
knowing full well that is
never the whole story.
