Turning 70: The Final Stretch

by Stephen J. Lyons

I waltzed through my three previous decade markers—40, 50, and 60—without much anxiety regarding aging. Perhaps I was too busy living my life or simply in denial that the sun had begun to set. Besides, I was still younger than my friends and, as I always annoy remind her, my wife. But when I crossed the threshold to 70, I finally noticed that my time among the living was running out.

There seems to be two reactions from consoling souls when I tell them I am freaked out about reaching the big seven-0.

“Well, it’s better than the alternative,” is the usual cheery bromide.

This glass half-full blather can easily be countered if one replies that the alternative (death) is simply falling asleep…forever. It’s not like you are dead and thinking I should not have complained so much. If I were still above dirt I could vote in the midterms and finish streaming Emily in Paris. Nope, you are dead and your best hope is to be reincarnated as an NBA star.

By the way, why can’t the alternative be that I am once again 21 years old with a straight back, sharp eyesight and living under a different president?

The second cliché about reaching this new anniversary is, “Come on, it’s just a number. Seventy is now the new 50.” No and no.

True, 70 is a number. However, it’s a rather large number compared to say, 21. Let’s do some math. An American male’s average life expectancy is around 76, or 72 months away from my present birthday. And we all know how fast a month goes.

When did everyone, from baseball general managers to my increasing roster of physicians, suddenly become so much younger? Just a number, eh?

Look, I didn’t mind hanging out in my fifties, where no one was reassuring me that 50 was the new 30. But seven decades in I can attest that there is nothing comparable to how I felt physically and mentally this morning to two decades ago. (That might be anecdotal because I do not remember what I had for lunch yesterday.)

Despite the increasing lapses in my recalled history, I am still considered of sound mind, able to draw the figures of analog clocks set at various configurations of times (positioning the big and little hands to 2:43 did stump me longer than I wished it had), a test now given to me at my “wellness” exam. And (so far) I have been able to repeat the three words spoken to me at the beginning of the annual exam. This year the words I was instructed to recall at the conclusion of the appointment were bat, baseball, and magazine.

“Too easy,” I told the nurse after I nailed the memory test. She just smiled, well, maybe smirked, as if to imply that I was becoming the sort of patient that had to be graded on a curve and one who she needs to speak louder and slower to.

But am I now truly elderly? If I get run over by a driverless Tesla will the newspaper write that “an elderly man died in a tragic accident”?

Can I no longer die young? Where will the pity come from if I pass away tomorrow? I can hear the handful of mourners now: Well, he should be darn thankful he lived 70 years. My cat only made it to 12. 

The Boomer gurus say embrace your age! Lean into your accumulated years and those senior discounts. Remember, every one of those wrinkles, crow’s feet and knee replacements are well-earned badges of wisdom, experience and payments to a divorce lawyer.

Nonsense. When I look in the mirror and see an old but somewhat familiar guy staring at me, I notice ugly blotches of shame and why the heck won’t Medicare cover Botox injections?

So here I am stumbling down the final stretch. While there is still times, I guess I should wear purple and tackle that new translation of Finnegans Wake. Instead, between naps and doctors’ appointments, I will wear the mourning color of black and review the beneficiaries on my diminishing investments. That is, if I can find the paperwork. 

Look, I know I shouldn’t worry this much about “getting up there in years,” because as one of my birthday cards noted, “old age doesn’t really last that long.”

Oh, great, now I feel so much better.