Martha Stewart, 81, wearing a swimsuit and modeling for SI? Harrison Ford, 80, sporting a younger face in his new Indiana Jones movie? Donald, not as nifty looking an octogenarian, a bit arthritic but still capable of moderate physical activity and still writing blogs for his few readers? Will wonders never cease?
As a child just barely past the age of reason in the late 1940s, I asked my dad, who lived to be 97, how long I would live. At the time, he had returned only a few years earlier from surviving the intense battle in Okinawa that took the lives of many of his fellow Marines. People in their sixties, I recall, worn down by the Great Depression and two world wars just “looked older” than many sixty-year olds scampering around in their electric cars in The Villages today. Pickle Ball playing seniors today seem relatively young, but the American male’s lifespan in the late forties was about 68, or ten years shorter than his lifespan today. While watching an episode of Twilight Zone in my youth, I heard a character say something like “I’m an old man; I’m 64.” Given that background, you should know that my dad said that I would probably live to about the year 2000, a year that seemed to my young brain a long way off.
To my older brain, 2000 seems a long way back. I certainly am thankful that I didn’t pass away 23 years ago and that I lived to be as old as vibrant Martha Stewart and swashbuckling Harrison Ford. Of course, I could be hit by a truck today, so I’m somewhat careful to avoid unnecessary risks. I’ve gone to too many funeral homes to pay respects for those who died young not to realize the transitory nature of life and the good fortune to prolong it. I recently saw the passing of two centenarians, friends whose lives were rich and full of goals and vibrant until their last moments. Good for them. They did what so few—though today in increasing numbers—achieved simply by living.
Certainly, Stewart and Ford are entitled to their vanity. They are, as we all know, marketable entities whose marketability requires constant renewal in the public eye. But let’s not kid ourselves: Age only works as long as it works. Anyone who becomes the “oldest living person” isn’t gong to hold that title long. I suppose it’s better to be the “second oldest living person” or someone farther down the list than to be top dog. That first-place trophy isn’t a piece of hardware that sits on the mantel of its recipient for long.
So when those first creaky-bone moments occur or a previously unknown pain surfaces in your nervous system, when you don’t remember where you put your phone or keys or glasses, you’ll understand how remarkably fortunate Martha and Harrison are. No doubt they have experienced some decline as evidenced by some photo touching, but the basics of their young adulthoods are still there in quantities sufficient for minor adjustments to mask. They definitely look good for their age.
But are there any comments more subtly telling than “You look good for your age”? Or, “You’re how old? I would never have guessed.” I suppose “retouching” and “minor adjustments” must be the inevitable fate of all, so there’s no reason to let vanity engender sadness or depression. It’s a common fate for those who survive. Some are just a bit more fortunate than others.
Neither my father nor my mother, who died at age 95, had many wrinkles. He still had his curly hair, albeit turned grey. Certainly, neither of them looked as old as that Twilight Zone actor who claimed old age at 64. If COVID hadn’t taken a chunk of us and slightly reduced the average age, there might be other Stewarts and Fords, and maybe even more Donalds capable of reasonable functioning and looking good at such an advanced age. I hope, however, never to be older than the second oldest person. If I reach that age, you can be sure that I will cheer on the first place person to keep winning that race.
As a child just barely past the age of reason in the late 1940s, I asked my dad, who lived to be 97, how long I would live. At the time, he had returned only a few years earlier from surviving the intense battle in Okinawa that took the lives of many of his fellow Marines. People in their sixties, I recall, worn down by the Great Depression and two world wars just “looked older” than many sixty-year olds scampering around in their electric cars in The Villages today. Pickle Ball playing seniors today seem relatively young, but the American male’s lifespan in the late forties was about 68, or ten years shorter than his lifespan today. While watching an episode of Twilight Zone in my youth, I heard a character say something like “I’m an old man; I’m 64.” Given that background, you should know that my dad said that I would probably live to about the year 2000, a year that seemed to my young brain a long way off.
To my older brain, 2000 seems a long way back. I certainly am thankful that I didn’t pass away 23 years ago and that I lived to be as old as vibrant Martha Stewart and swashbuckling Harrison Ford. Of course, I could be hit by a truck today, so I’m somewhat careful to avoid unnecessary risks. I’ve gone to too many funeral homes to pay respects for those who died young not to realize the transitory nature of life and the good fortune to prolong it. I recently saw the passing of two centenarians, friends whose lives were rich and full of goals and vibrant until their last moments. Good for them. They did what so few—though today in increasing numbers—achieved simply by living.
Certainly, Stewart and Ford are entitled to their vanity. They are, as we all know, marketable entities whose marketability requires constant renewal in the public eye. But let’s not kid ourselves: Age only works as long as it works. Anyone who becomes the “oldest living person” isn’t gong to hold that title long. I suppose it’s better to be the “second oldest living person” or someone farther down the list than to be top dog. That first-place trophy isn’t a piece of hardware that sits on the mantel of its recipient for long.
So when those first creaky-bone moments occur or a previously unknown pain surfaces in your nervous system, when you don’t remember where you put your phone or keys or glasses, you’ll understand how remarkably fortunate Martha and Harrison are. No doubt they have experienced some decline as evidenced by some photo touching, but the basics of their young adulthoods are still there in quantities sufficient for minor adjustments to mask. They definitely look good for their age.
But are there any comments more subtly telling than “You look good for your age”? Or, “You’re how old? I would never have guessed.” I suppose “retouching” and “minor adjustments” must be the inevitable fate of all, so there’s no reason to let vanity engender sadness or depression. It’s a common fate for those who survive. Some are just a bit more fortunate than others.
Neither my father nor my mother, who died at age 95, had many wrinkles. He still had his curly hair, albeit turned grey. Certainly, neither of them looked as old as that Twilight Zone actor who claimed old age at 64. If COVID hadn’t taken a chunk of us and slightly reduced the average age, there might be other Stewarts and Fords, and maybe even more Donalds capable of reasonable functioning and looking good at such an advanced age. I hope, however, never to be older than the second oldest person. If I reach that age, you can be sure that I will cheer on the first place person to keep winning that race.
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