I find it quite amusing how the baby boom generation and their natural offspring, the generation X crowd look at the state of age and the aging process in general. The whole attitude seems to revolve around the fear of being considered old or perhaps, the very reality of getting old itself. That's why we hear of these new axioms like " 40 is the new 30" and so on, and so forth. The thing that strikes me as funny is that there is this palpable disconnect to what these boomers and X-ers are saying and selling now, compared to the time when they were younger. In their days of youth, especially for the boomers, there was this very visible aura of contempt on their part for their elders' rather staid and somewhat autocratic generation. That said, history tells us that it was indeed the boomers themselves that laid the very foundation of our own open-minded and fast-progressing modern free society.
I am 47 years old today. Too young to be a boomer but too old for the genX crowd. I guess I'm what you call an In-Betweener. To my son and his generation, and certainly to the Xers, I'm an old fart. But do I really feel that old ? More importantly, do I consider myself as old ?
I would be lying if I say I don't feel old. At least physically, I do. I feel it every morning when I wake up and try to get up from my bed. The toll of existing for 47 years is very real to me. But besides the aches and pains that I have to endure with my morning drive and coffee, I don't really feel that much different from say, ten years ago. Or maybe even 20 years ago. I know I'm getting old but the real question is have I grown up ? Have I reached the zenith of maturity ? And is it all downhill from here ? I know the answer to the last question. Heck, I think the downward spiral began right after high school. But the first two, I am not quite sure.
I remember the time when my own dad turned fifty. I woke up especially early that day, so I could be the first one to greet him on that monumental morning. I found him sitting in his usual chair, reading the obituaries section. He told me that when people reach a certain age, one can't help but look at the "numbers index" on the everyday death notices. Try and see if death was getting close to your own doorstep, I suppose. And to me, I think that's the very thing a lot of these boomers and Xers and everybody else thinks and fears about. That every year you add up to your age, the closer you get to the inevitable. So some people just simply refuse to admit that 40 is actually being 40. Instead they build this myth around them, that they are still young and there's plenty of time ahead for them.
There's this new data out that says the marriage rate and the infancy rate is at an all-time high. It suggests that a lot of Xers are bypassing the time-honoured tradition of "the right time to settle down and start a family". With burgeoning careers and the appeal of independent and care-free lifestyles, especially for the women, they choose to put "settling down" and "commitment" on hold for the pleasures of not growing up at all. And who can really blame them ?
Twenty years ago, I would have hanged myself if faced with the competing pressures of holding down a job so I can keep up with the car and mortgage payments and other expenses while trying to raise a hard-headed teenager at the same time as trying to make a relationship with my wife work. Now, I just call it tuesday. So maybe I have grown up a tad or two ? But is that what you really call growing up ? Or is it just a matter of growing into your life ?
Personally, I don't really give it much of a thought. Whenever I look back at my life, I can't help but sometimes yearn for the days when I was young. When all I have to worry about was myself and the choices were simple. In my younger years, I used to think what kind of life I would have if I ever reached the age I am right now. Truth be told, I couldn't even imagine myself being this old. Maybe, it was out of lack of creative imagination. Or maybe fear. The fear of growing old. But I have come to accept the reality that there's now less of me going forward and more of what I've left behind. Just like my dad on the morning of his 50th birthday.
I was 13 years old when I personally witnessed the start of a brand new life for the very first time. My cousin Alexander, born in the afternoon of September 9th, 1977, three weeks before my 14th birthday. I was 17 when I saw the last gasp breath of my great-grandmother, Bernarda on November 25th, 1980. The first death I ever witnessed. I have seen both of my parents at their strongest and at their weakest. I remember the day when I finally got introduced to the very first girl that made my heart beat out of my chest. It was December 16th, 1977. It was at that point, the happiest day of my life. And I remember the night when I had to say goodbye to someone and let her go because we were simply too young to take each other seriously. It was March 7th, 1980. And needless to say, I cried myself to sleep that night.
I remember being engulfed in fear and anxiety on the morning of my own wedding, June 5, 1993. Ironically, it was the same feeling I felt in the moments before the birth of our son Joey, in the afternoon of March 9, 1994. And all the years in between and the ones leading up to what is now, I've had my own share of ups and downs, tears and laughter, anger and genuine happiness. So the question I should really ask myself is not whether I'm old or grown up ? But rather: "Am I happy with what I've become ?"
I'll answer it this way. Everyday that I come home from work, I dash through the side door. I would find my son, who in every which way is the younger version of me, in the basement, doing whatever the hell it is he's doing. And whatever it is, it's not even remotely close to schoolwork. In fact, I feel a certain air of disappointment if he's not down there or if he's doing something else outside of the ordinary. My wife would be doing the finishing touches for supper. Or paying the household bills. Or moping or sulking and worrying about the future. Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes we'd argue. Sometimes we'd fight. But most of the time we'd just smile at each other. Glad that were both there for each other and for our child. Glad that we've made it inspite of it all. Glad that we're still alive. And maybe that's what life is all about, afterall. It's not about growing up or getting old. It's about living. And I live my life because I have something to live for. So to answer my own question: Am I happy ? As my favourite clown, Sarah Palin would say, "you betcha".
So, despite the constant yearning for more, let me just end in saying; "I am one content old fart".
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME.
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