On birthdays and aging.

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Hi Friends,

My birthday was two days ago. 54 years old. I don’t really think about the number any more. Aging, yes. The changes in my body, yes. But not the number.

I feel blessed to have received many birthday texts, calls and messages. I haven’t listened to or read any of them. I’m not sure why. For the past couple days, when I look at my phone, at the unread messages and unplayed voicemails, I feel a tightness in my body and put my phone down.

I’m a gifted processor, which is to say I have an active and curious (and relentless) mind, especially when it comes to why I do the things I do. And I genuinely have no idea why I’m resisting reading and playing my bday messages. It feels a little like resisting love, not being able to receive the love, but I don’t think that’s it.

I’m someone who, when I get a new shirt I really love, will keep it in the closet for weeks or months before I wear it, waiting for the perfect occasion. Because it’s special. But I don’t think I’m saving these messages the way I save the special shirt.

Maybe it’s just an aversion to my phone, as I’m working to spend more time away from it, but that doesn’t totally land either.

How difficult is it to listen to or read messages that are certain to say some version of Happy Birthday! I love you!? At least right now, pretty difficult.

Have you had an experience like this?

My Facebook profile doesn’t allow people to post directly on my timeline. Each year, the day before my birthday, I change the privacy settings to allow timeline posting so I can receive the deluge of Happy Birthday messages on my page. My ego compels me to do so. Ooh, look how beloved I am to have so many birthday messages. I must be a good person.

I didn’t change the settings this year.

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I have thought of myself as someone who no longer carries a lot of shame, but I’m seeing how false that is. I intend to write more about shame in this space. About my shame. We’ll see if I’m courageous enough to do so the way I’d like to do so.

As it relates to my birthday, I want to acknowledge the shame I feel…no, the shame my mind feels about aging, about being well into mid-life, about being older. With close loved ones who are also older I’ll chirp back and forth about the challenges of aging. It’s a trip is one of my regular refrains. And it is.

What I don’t say is that my mind tells me I’m less relevant because of my age. That I’m not as cool. That I’m weaker and more fragile. That younger people don’t take me as seriously.

I understand that the shame I feel about aging is rooted in endless cultural messaging that prioritizes youth, but that doesn’t make it easier to transcend a lifetime of agist conditioning.

What’s ironic (or some other word that better reflects what I’m about to say) is that I currently feel the sexiest I’ve ever felt in my life. More at home in my body than ever, except when it’s hurting in unusual and unexpected ways. A sneeze shouldn’t tweak your back, right?

When I read writing about aging, I tend to do some pro-level bypassing with a touch of disassociation. That’s definitely not me.

Sure, I’m not interested in being someone who spends a lot of time complaining about getting older. I’m all for being honest with myself about the challenges when they present themselves, yes, and about my fears and insecurities too. But I don’t really see the point, at least for me, of constantly focusing on the negatives of aging.

The issue for me, or maybe it’s only an issue if I make it so, is that I feel I’m often riding the line between bypassing and accepting. Like, am I really as okay with this experience as I believe myself to be, or am I just skilled at ignoring all the ways I’m not okay with it? And is that a problem, or is that one path to more peace in my life?

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I used to water ski every summer at the family cottage in northern Michigan. I haven’t done so in years, because the fun no longer outweighs my concern over falling and hurting myself. I feel embarrassed to share this with you. Ashamed, I guess. And why? It’s entirely natural to consider the condition of your body when considering what you want to do with it. It’s just hard for me to acknowledge it, to accept the limitations I’m putting on myself as my body gets older. There’s a relevant story here about masculinity and expectations on manhood that I’m not going to get into right now, but I know that feeds into the shame my mind feels about being older.

A quick but sincere apology to all of you reading this who are much older than I and perhaps rolling your eyes at the 54 year old crying about getting old. I recently wanted to throw my turkey sandwich at a trio of 20-somethings talking about their terror of turning 30.

We’re all where we are, wherever that is.

And, along with everything I’ve written here, there’s a sincere part of me that longs to be much older, say 82, and sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of my cabin home, spending my days with my love, communing with the trees and swimming in the lake. Not giving a single thought to what it is I need to do next. Simply being with each day and doing what I like. Doesn’t that sound nice? Of course, in this idealized vision, I’m old but healthy, have enough money to support myself, and am not forced into back spasms by even the heartiest sneezes.

As I wrote that last paragraph, my mind went to an experience I had several years ago, walking into I think Walmart and being greeted by a female employee who must have been in her eighties. Her job was to welcome people to the store, and it appeared to me she was barely healthy enough to do this. Her body hunched forward, frail and unsteady, and though she somewhat smiled a hello, all I could feel was her pain. I’m certain her ideal vision of her eighties had nothing to do with working at Walmart, and I’m certain a more civilized, compassionate nation would not force a person her age and in her condition to still have to work in order to be able to live.

What I wasn’t going to share, for fear that you might judge me in any number of ways, is that after I left the store, I went back in and tried to hand the woman a $50 bill. I don’t remember what I said as I did so, but I’m sure I did my best to sound casual and not pitying, even though I felt desperate pity for her reality in that moment. And then felt terrible that she likely felt my pity even as I tried to hide it. She waved the money away and said she would get in trouble if she accepted it. If that doesn’t say something about America.

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Also, I am no longer interested in not sharing things out of fear of being judged.

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I had a lovely birthday, by the way. I’m on a road trip right now and spent my bday with my manfriend Rob. We took a beautiful hike, spent a lot of time in bed, and ate the best coconut cream pie I’ve ever tasted.

I struggle with this country, and this world, pained by the relentless cruelty and injustice here. And, I’m grateful to be alive. Grateful for my life, and for the many loved ones who fill it with connection. Even if I don’t listen to or read their messages.

I’m grateful for this space, too. For your presence here. For your willingness to sit with whatever it is I choose to share. My prayer is that my words are helpful in some way, and that we may all feel a little less alone in our experience.

I love you.

xoxo…Scott