I’ve only ever told one person that I considered forty my terminal number.
Many years ago, my septuagenarian elder aunt traveled across the country to visit my mother. The sisters had been trying to reconnect after a period of neglect: Each had moved to a new home and gotten a new job. My aunt was taking care of her grandsons, and my mother was taking certification courses. They found new goals and slowly drifted apart.
During this transformative time in their lives, mine had stopped. I felt I attained everything I could up to that point; I was deeply ashamed by my failures and sought solace in solitude. I later came to learn of Nietzsche’s quote from Twilight of the Idols: “He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.” I had lost my purpose in life and was slowly casting adrift.
I have no journal entry to confirm the season or year of this reunion, but I remember it because of one memory: In the evening of her departure, I had a brief chat with my cousin, who took time off work to chauffeur his mother. When he heard about how I didn’t see myself living past forty, he did a double take—then reached for his wallet and handed me everything in it. My aunt got in the back seat before I could protest.
Years went by. I binged on auteur movies and emptied magnum bottles. I learned of empathy, forgiveness, and the absurd value of Kirkland wine. Gradually, I came to accept the pieces of broken dreams that were scattered beneath my feet. There was no meteoric Heiligenstadt Testament moment for me. I would be remiss to omit the enduring love from the women in my life. Their extraordinary patience and understanding allowed time to come to terms with myself.
Here I am alive and well and well over forty. Peace of mind accompanies aging. The more I learn about myself and my place in the world, the less I am bothered by the what’s beyond my control and what’s unimportant.
No one cares about my appearance anymore, and those that claim they do insist I look handsome. I went to see my barber so often, he confided that there was nothing for him to do for most of the hour-long appointment. I switched out my closet more frequently than I got my hair done this year. The manager of a luxury clothing brand used to call me when new collections arrived in the store, and I gave them my money like a debtor. My wallet is now at the beck and call of the restaurant industry, and I have the physique to show for it.
Misconceptions bother me far less. I prefer to get along with people rather than attempt to change them. Interactions with the type of individuals whom I abhorred in the past improved tremendously. Perhaps it is I who changed by attenuating militant atheism into agreeable humanism. My grandmother once told me, “Keep your mouth shut and nod at them.” When she said my family is going to hell because I stopped going to church, I nodded in silence.
I stopped taking excellence for granted. I resigned myself to live in coexistence with mediocre imitators and mendacious critics. On the other hand, I have never felt more appreciative of great artists. It’s as though I’ve been training my whole life to recognize Gesamtkunstwerks. I shall devote much of this blog to what I find beautiful.
Of course there are downsides to getting old.
I’m noticing more health problems and an inability to retain information. The latter manifests in real time in when my wife is talking to me. I woefully parted ways with my favorite pistachio ice cream and caramel candies due to prediabetic symptoms. One of the medications I was taking caused tremors. Getting old is unpleasant business when your family health history guarantees insurance premiums. It’s a matter of when for me, not if.
I remind myself to make new friends every time I happen upon the Harvard Study of Adult Development. A part of me naively hopes to alleviate the sufferings in old age by nurturing relationships. The challenge, however, lies in leaving my comfort zone. My hobbies are all-consuming, partly because of temperament but mainly through years of trial and error to combat boredom. In a sense, I have become too selfish to share my attention. I am both relieved and saddened that this predicament is prevalent among middle-agers.
Here I am after mass extinction events, the rise and fall of kingdoms, and other terrible crises. I survived injuries, deformities, and disorders. Though I doubt I’ll ever bear the worst hows, I know that I live for my family. If life before forty was about finding myself, what lies ahead of me is loving others more—especially by giving them my full attention.