Once I found myself seated amid neighbors and friends in the public meeting room in the basement of the then First National Bank. It was Gallatin’s only public meeting room at that time, so it was used for a wide variety of reasons.
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The presentation underway was about alcoholism. A debate ensued about whether alcoholism should be viewed as a vice or a disease. It wasn’t hard to distinguish the teetotalers from those who chose to (frequently) imbibe. I forget who won the argument; I just remember understanding how we don’t all think alike.
This week I read a new twist on an emerging debate that points to the same conclusion. Here’s the question, as posed by the Association of Mature American Citizens: Is growing old just a part of life or is it a disease?
Silly me. Somehow I have breached six decades of life on this earth thinking that aging is a fact of life and separate from disease. But evidently the medical textbooks now say that if the majority of people get an age-associated disorder, it’s aging. If less than half of people get something over time, it’s a disease.
So, it seems, there are those now arguing that aging is not an absolute process.
What has some researchers hopping is how they’ve discovered a molecule that significantly boosts a cell’s ability to repair damaged DNA. So, tell me, what impact will this news have on the old adage about the certainty of death and taxes?
Personally, I think it’s healthy to approach each birthday as mind over matter — you know the jingle: “If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” But realistically, it’s just not that simple and I don’t think we’re ready for this debate.
Medical advances enable more and more Americans in the 60s and 70s to “age together” with parents in the 80s and 90s. That’s already reality for many Baby Boomers today. What future will unfold as the Millennials enter into their old age?
It is conceivable that younger generations may not accept growing old as just a part of life. After all, we’re stumbling on the definition of family. We’re no longer sure what gender sign to put on a public bathroom door. So, how are we suppose to know when old age begins?
My kids gave me a T-shirt years ago that captures what I feel inside. I forget which birthday prompted the talk about being over the hill, but the now faded T-shirt that still fits me says, “Hill? What hill? I don’t remember any hill!”
Talk to a teenager and the dreaded age plateau is 30. Talk to a 30-year-old and old age begins at 50. For 50-year-olds, old age begins at 75. For me, old age hit me flush in face when the young thing at the Shopko checkout counter asked me, “Do you want the senior discount?” Some things a guy just never forgets.
When would you say old age begins? Is it a number, a feeling, a set of habits or an attitude? Is this something to be determined by a survey or democratic vote?
I read where napping and knitting are out; going to the gym and traveling the world are in … unless you can’t afford it, of course, which is why I hesitate to put a number to define old age, even the full Social Security retirement age of 65 … since everything I understand about our national debt makes me think this target age will have to be revised.
I found a list that is suppose to help you realize the signs of old age. I’ve forgotten half of it, but it went something like this:
- You become forgetful
- You groan when getting up from a chair or out of bed
- You repeat yourself
- You choose clothes for comfort rather than style
- You have no idea what’s atop music’s Top 10 list
- You repeat yourself
- People (even women) offer you a seat in public
- You forget where your glasses are …after getting upset by admitting you really need to find them
- You repeat yourself
- Your pickup is twice as old as your grandson, while counting his is dog years
- You prefer to stay home rather than go out
- You fall asleep watching TV or reading the paper
There are other signs, of course. This discussion can even get a little hairy.
As I write this, I know I need a haircut. Back in my day (…er, add that to the above), long hair was groovy. I had hair flowing out the back of my motorcycle helmet; those performing the classic rock songs I still hum wore locks much longer. Long hair was a statement for youthful rebellion.
So, when did that change?
Monday night I watched an old rock group perform during the pre-game show before the tipoff of the national basketball championship. I found myself wondering why they hadn’t yet retired. I notice TV cameras seldom pan the stage for closeups of aging musical performers. Long grey hair simply doesn’t have alluring luster; sagging skin and age lines don’t exactly inspire especially if the harmony strays a bit off key. I sang along with them anyway while trying to recall the rock group’s name.
But, hey, remember, aging is just a disease! Science can fix it. I’m sure we’re just a few products and a bazillion advertisements away from looking much better than our doting age and actions might otherwise imply.
Modern medicine promises forever young (because undoubtedly that will sell). But in the meantime, I think I’ll go to the barber shop, to allow my ears to reappear, and try to make it back for a nap before supper’s capped by another Antiques Roadshow. It’s a lot to get done before bedtime, but I’m used to the routine. After all, old age is not for sissies.
By the way, …ahem …have you seen my keys?