My youngest daughter asked me the other day, “what’s it like to be old”? Obviously I gave her a clip round the ear and told her not to be so bloody rude, but after reflecting on the question further, I had no choice but to concede the point.
I am old, there’s no point in denying the fact. Next year, I hit 60 and that’s the wrong side of middle age.
The trouble is, I’m not sure, having accepted the premise, that I am capable of answering the question. It’s rather like asking a fish, “what’s it like to live surrounded by water?” – you become so accustomed to the reality that you barely notice it. It’s almost as elusive as “what it’s like to be young?”. Almost, but not quite, as obviously I haven’t always been old, whereas young people have always been young.
Thus I should have something to compare it with, but it isn’t simple because the inner self, as opposed to the outer, is curiously ageless. So the obvious thing about getting old, I suppose, is the state of the body. And in this regard, my darling daughter, what it’s like to grow old is rather similar to what it’s like to be a piece of fruit in a bowl on a hot day. Decay becomes very noticeable – a liver spot here, an inflamed prostate there, a cancer scare somewhere else.
As a result of this, you have to take a lot of ribbing and mockery from your family, who disguise their secret distaste with humour (it is understandable and human that your children should be repelled by you at some level – because you are an undesirable reminder of what they, too, will one day become).
What about an old mind? What does that feel like? I rather suspect every old mind feels rather different, because they have had a lifetime of building a worldview, whereas young people’s journey is just beginning. The young mind – or at least the intelligent, sensitive one – wants answers to troubling questions, like “where did I come from?” “where am I going?” and “what’s the point of all this?”.
The old mind probably gave up trying to answer such questions many years ago or has settled into some compromise position that fails to answer any of those questions convincingly, but which is agreed upon by enough other people for it to represent some kind of platform on which to live a functional life.
As a writer, and particularly as a novelist, I have never allowed myself to give up asking those simple, childish questions, as sitting alone in a room all day is not really conducive to the sort of distractions that are necessary to keep these existential problems out of sight. Also, you need to have a take on them to write anything with any depth or importance. It keeps me occupied – like a rather distressing hobby.
Is there any good news about the old mind, or is it as crummy, crumbling and shabby as the old body? I think there may be. Age may produce many kinds of different psyches – bitter, satisfied, regretful, joyful even – and it is absolutely not as determined as the destiny of the body.
I have always preferred being old to being young, and would favour being a man over a boy, but I recognise it is not to everyone’s taste (as all these invocations to stay young imply – like the T-shirt that reads “Don’t Grow Up – It’s a Trap”).
I think being really old – the next life stage for me, if I make it that far – is probably not going to be much fun. But at the moment, liver spots notwithstanding, it’s not as bad it looks.
