The Final Countdown....to 50

 

Many of us find new ways to describe ourselves in our 40s. Some of us are people “of a certain age.” Others are “not as young as we used to be.” The brave among us are “middle aged,” though that title conjures up images of a long-ago time when the world was becoming more decrepit and falling apart…a logical analogy with the new creaks and groans that seem to multiply every morning when we get up. And then there’s the sign on the side of the road of life:

50.

Half a century on the planet. Officially eligibility for AARP and foster grandparent programs.

Yeah. 50.

It’s coming at me like a Gen-X-seeking missile in just a few weeks. The weirdest part isn’t that I’m GETTING older… it’s that I don’t FEEL older. Yes there are the grey hairs multiplying in my beard and the bedtimes that seem to be creeping earlier (as well as the urge to rise early….even on weekends), but I don’t see the world with angry eyes. I joke with my colleagues that we are all lucky to be teachers of the 18-22 crowd, as their youth and vitality seem to rub off on us a bit.

It's not so much the internal indicators (which for me, are largely silent) but the external stimuli which seem to hit the hardest. While we don’t see ourselves as having changed, as we live in our own skin suits and hardly notice the incremental differences year after year, the evolution of our friends’ lives hits us like a hammer. The person you haven’t seen in a year has gone greyer and their hairline has receded. A coworker has announced their retirement. College classmates are seeing their first kids graduate college themselves.

In a more tragic vein, those of us nearing 50 witness the deaths of people younger than ourselves. Be it accidents, disease, or life choices, not all of us make it this far. While the aches and pains are annoying, they are a minor price for the continued gift of being present, aware, and upright on the planet. As a volunteer for the Healing Patch, a grief support program for kids, I regularly work with people younger than me who are burying spouses, parents, and even children. Life as you approach the age equator most definitely takes on a new preciousness.

While the young students I mention give us energy by proxy, they also serve as reminders of how long we’ve been on a planet. This past week, a fantastic young lady wore a “Sublime” t-shirt to class. I asked her if she enjoyed the band’s music and she, indeed, knew their catalog. It occurred to me that Sublime’s last record came out in 1996, 27 years ago, at least 8 years before she was born. I decided to apply the math to my own youth. I was a college freshman in 1991; the equivalent for me would be listening to a band that was playing in 1964.

Holy S&*t; to a college freshman, a band from my college years is equivalent to what the Beatles was for me.

For context, I also just said that sentence out loud. It’s amazing how music can give us context for time (well, at least those of us who remember the pre-streaming era). My college freshmen are listening to the tunes that formed the foundation of my generation’s identity as “oldies.” For me, the world truly has changed.

I’ve been proud, overall, of how my generational cohort has refused to go down quietly. GenX bands like Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, and Metallica are still playing loud, angry music. Most of my friends still care about what they wear and how they look; we’ve pushed back against wearing sweatpants and New Balance sneakers to dinner, though we HAVE adapted stretch Levi's for our waistlines and orthopedic inserts for our Chucks. Many of us are caring for children and parents while being in the peak of our careers. GenXers are good at social media (but need a break from it once and a while), are adept at using technology for productivity (better, even, than younger generations in this regard, even if we need our reading glasses for our iPhones), have a killer work ethic, and are adaptable. If cynicism is one of the hallmarks of 80s/90s kids, the trait of being “aggressively adaptable” is a close cousin.

At almost 50, I’m still performing, composing, and recording music. I go to the gym 4-6 days a week. I started a new career at 41, finished a doctorate at 48, and began my consulting work at 49. I get excited to go to work and learn new things and I have a hard time sleeping at night because so many ideas are bouncing around in my head. 50 doesn’t feel like a warning to “slow down.” 50 is not a speed limit or an off ramp. It’s simply a mile marker. In this drive across Death Valley, you’ve made it to mile 50, based on the choices you’ve made and a healthy dose of good fortune.

To me, this sign on the side of the road seems more like encouragement to “hit the gas” and remember to make the most of whatever miles lie ahead. A little momentum might get us a few more miles even when the tank is running dry.