Jed Wolf

So what does “Aging Gracefully” mean, if anything at all? Does it mean keeping a low profile as we decline into the “hoary age” so as not to trouble juveniles with the inevitability of doom? Or is it about etiquette, maintaining a dancer’s physique? Who benefits if we modestly mature, humbly crumble, or wane without a whine… our indolent youth? Or is it actually about grace as in “by the grace of God go I?”

Yesterday, as I hauled my sixty years into the first of twenty or so apple trees I prune annually, I wrestled with this reckoning. The week before, I’d forced two of my spare ribs to painfully tear apart while climbing over an eight-foot door to get into a high school storage room where I’m building a set. Now it was 38°, and a friend’s kid was about to help me prune these mature trees when “Fuck, Ouch, Shit, Damn” happened, followed by his repeated “Are you okay?”—my ribs angrily wishing they could unstack themselves.

Other than my first heart attack, this would’ve been the first time in my life I couldn’t hide my pain. There I was, caught, hunched on an excruciating low apple branch, trying to make this whole outdoorsy thing seem cool to a bearded kid who’d rather be playing video games. His “Are you alright?” sounded like a death knell. “Shut the fuck up,” I wanted to scream, but I too had a beard when I was his age. I felt the need to manify my “sensitive” looks back then but finally, fearfully shaved it in my thirties.

So, if embracing ourselves wherever we are in our lives is key, then what’s wrong with embracing how frustrating inevitable aging is? What would that look like? There would be plenty of grumbling balanced with a healthy amount of appreciation.

[Footnote: There are hundreds of synonyms for “Complaining” yet only three (3) antonyms: “Appreciation, Enjoying and Praising.” So maybe there is a God and I have no argument. My futile fault-hunt proves its opposite.]

Do I really want to be degrading my experience further while literally degrading… or choose to Appreciate, Enjoy and… Praise my enfeeblement? Here’s why I don’t get on the spiritual train: Sure, as time ticks on I’m more self-assured, and assured in and about my annihilation. Fine. Faith is a great way for some to manage their worry (a nullifying and murderous bone of contention with me), but the real reason I’m not interested in grace is because I’m not worried.

Granted, I don’t have a kid with a life-threatening illness. I’m just a frustrated schmuck unprepared for increasing incapacitation, haggardness, muddle-mindedness and pain—a selfish, vain immodest monster to some, yet merely honest I hope to others.

I’m almost finished… Not literally. I’m in great shape for my age, but without climbing trees and over doors, men like me might find more creative ways to adjust to wearing out without aspiring to “gracefulness” or plastic surgery. When my dad could no longer stop the speeding bullet with his bare hands, he laid down and died.

Any other suggestions?