WELCOMING THE BIG 9-0
by Jim Freund
© 2024
I’ve just turned 90. Although almost all my friends who have attained this number have done so rather quietly, I feel the need to follow my own examples (set most recently at years 75, 80 and 85) and express a few views on the subject.
At those last three benchmark ages, I started off with the following dichotomy regarding the number of years – and will unabashedly do the same here as well:
The Big Plus: I MADE IT! There’s satisfaction at having survived, which is underscored by the disturbing reality that so many of my contemporaries didn’t make the cut.
The Big Minus: PSYCHOLOGICALLY, IT SUCKS! How did I get to be so old? Where did all those years go?
Let’s face it – 90 is a hell of a lot of years. Try this on for historical perspective: I had a great-grandmother who hadn’t yet turned 80 the year I arrived on the scene (1934), and yet she herself was born prior to the opening fusillade of our Civil War!
Often, when disclosing to someone I don’t know too well that I’m turning 90 – and after they respond to the news with an obligatory gasp of “No! I can’t believe it!” (which I’ve learned to take with a hefty grain of salt) – they ask me some variation of, “To what do you attribute your long life?”
I presume they’re expecting an answer containing some combination of sensible eating / not too much drinking / a reasonable degree of exercise / helpful pills, and so on – but here’s what they actually get from me: “I attribute this almost entirely to the fact that my mother lived to 105.”
This generates a lot of “wow!” reactions, which I then follow up with something along these lines: “Yes, it’s primarily due to my mother’s longevity. My father, not so much. In fact, if I based my survival chances on the mathematical average of my mother/father life spans, I’d be dead by now . . . .” At which point, I often gaze up into the heavens and say, “Dad, wherever you are, just know that I love you very much – but I’m sticking with Mom on this one . . . .”
Many of the subjects that absorb my life now were equally consuming at one or more of those last three benchmark ages. These include reflections on aging, mortality, health, memory, retirement, and family / friends / associates. I’ll refresh some of those areas and incorporate other matters that have become more significant to me in approaching 90 (and expect will stick around in the decade ahead).
MORTALITY
Let’s begin with mortality, which takes up a lot of reflection time as you swing into your 90’s, observe your faculties diminish, and mourn your many buddies who didn’t make it.
In fact, it’s hard to ignore mortality now, even on days when you’re feeling fine. As one of my Princeton classmates put it several years back, “Well, we may not be in the batter’s box, but we’re sure as hell on deck.” (And, sadly, he himself entered the box not long ago.) But that’s too bleak. I’ve uncovered several more comforting expressions from noted individuals who looked the future squarely in the eye and managed to avoid despair. Some, like author W. Somerset Maugham, simply ignored the reality:
Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.
Others, like actor Edward G. Robinson, focused on a positive aspect amid the gloom:
If He has given us one marvelous gift, it is that He does not permit us to know the future. It would be unbearable.
By the way, here’s some neat dialogue, quoted by Ram Dass, to back up Robinson’s point:
Zen Student: “What happens after death?”
Zen Master: “I do not know.”
Zen Student: “How can that be. You are a zen master!”
Zen Master: “But I am not a dead Zen Master.”
The quotes I like best are those that view living as a positive to be appreciated. Here for instance, is how musician Artur Rubinstein handled it:
I live by one principle. Enjoy life with no conditions . . . . [U]nderstand that life is a wonderful thing and . . . enjoy it, every day, to the full.
And author Agatha Christie, although acknowledging some pain, comes out the same way:
I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, actively miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all, I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.
I’m a bit abashed to admit that my approach to my own mortality has been to ignore it – like Maugham, “have nothing whatever to do with it.” Maybe that’s because I’ve been a lifelong optimist, for whom the glass has always been at least half-full. Upon brief reflection, I’ve concluded that this is no time to waver – just continue as a disciple of the adage: “Worry is the interest paid on trouble before it’s due.”
As a result, pertinent subjects like burial vs. cremation (or what may ensue after that) are not my cup of tea. I’m roughly in the same camp as my son Tom was at age 12, who replied with these words when I asked him how he was doing in terms of his Sunday School spiritual education: “Dad, when they start talking about those things, I’ve just got to get up and walk around.” For me, almost eight decades older now than my kid was back then, it’s still a matter of getting up and walking around . . . . I’ve obviously got some work to do on this in my nineties.
So, that’s all I’m going to say on the subject of mortality here – except to make two observations, each focused on the passing away of others who played a significant role in your life.
The first concerns the loss of shared memories. We all retain vivid recollections of events from prior years – personal experiences that were shared with just one individual who was also present. When he or she goes, so does the sharing. I became most aware of this when my first wife, Barbro, passed away some years ago. The tensions of our divorce had softened into an amicable relationship; we met for lunch periodically, and had began to reminisce about some pleasant memories that only we two could recall. I was really looking forward to more of the same, but now I have to revisit these past episodes on my own.
The other thought involves eulogies, which I’ve lately been giving at memorial services for deceased relatives and friends. It’s not an activity I look forward to, but I don’t shy from it either – and I do keep in mind that it’s preferable to be speaking the eulogy than to be its subject. In recent efforts, in addition to my own positive assessment of the deceased based on close contact, I’ve taken to incorporating into the eulogy two other devices that a number of those in attendance have told me they welcomed.
First, especially when the program is dominated by grieving children and grandchildren (as it should be) and I’m one of the few friends to speak, I solicit in advance comments from other friends of the deceased who have pertinent favorable opinions to express based on their own experiences, and I incorporate these into the eulogy. This way, listeners can appreciate that it’s not just me who admires the deceased, and the resulting effect is duly multiplied.
The second device is available where you can find written samples of how the deceased expressed himself/herself meaningfully during life on such issues as feelings toward family, friends, a lifetime profession or business, and other significant activity. I then quote fragments of these in the eulogy. For attendees, the effect of hearing the deceased’s own words at a memorial can prove a valuable adjunct to what the rest of us may contribute.
HEALTH
I’ve had my health problems over the years – dealing mainly with an aching back and troublesome knee – and these have slowed me down physically, but they don’t compare in seriousness to the ailments so many of my contemporaries suffer from. I feel for those in pain, but don’t consider myself qualified to discourse on their woes, so I’ll focus on my own minor stuff – like using a cane.
For the past year, triggered by a weakness I experienced in the vicinity of my left knee, I’ve been using a cane. The weakness seems to be under control (to which my continuing presence on the tennis court attests – more on this later), but I’ve developed an affection for the cane that I’m unlikely to renounce in years to come.
In part, this affection is attributable to the reality of having heard so many sad tales of oldsters taking nasty falls that injure the body and depress the spirit – a fate I wish to avoid at all costs. The streets of NYC undermine smooth sailing, the undulating country landscape signals a need for help, and too many stairways don’t provide bannisters. My balance is pretty good, but having a “third leg” in these potentially troublesome situations is still mighty helpful.
Although I don’t really need to use the cane around the house, I’ve installed a “finding” device on my iPhone that will lead me to its location if (as is too often the case) I’ve forgotten where it now reposes. I have also positioned around my residences and in my car several fold-up auxiliary canes, guaranteeing that I’ll never be without one when it’s needed.
I may have experienced some embarrassment in earlier years at publicly exhibiting this confirmation of my pedestrian insecurity, but this has paled beside the invaluable antidote provided to those of us at age 90 – namely, the fact that the combination of your elderly appearance and the tapping cane motivates pedestrians and motorists (although sadly, not most bicyclists) to extend you courtesies you’d be unlikely to be awarded without that “help welcome” signal sent by the cane. And while I might have bristled at such assistance years ago, I welcome it now.
Plus which, if a few tough guys make some threatening moves toward you (or your spouse), the cane provides a valuable source of defense – whack! whack! . . . .
There are, however, some things that even a cane can’t handle. I’ve been attending almost every Princeton alumni reunion since I graduated. In fact, this past year I played nine hours of piano over the weekend for several small audiences and a larger one. I fully intend to keep this up while I can.
The highlight of each weekend is the one mile P-Rade through the campus. I’ve been a regular walker in these P-Rades for over 65 years.
I feel the need to digress briefly here. A memorable moment in my Princeton activities occurred with my son Erik in the 1981 P-Rade. Here what I wrote about it in my memoir.
I’ll never forget one special incident during these years. In the spring of 1981, Erik suffered a scary accident to his foot that had him on crutches for a number of weeks. I was president of our Princeton Class of ’56, which was celebrating its 25th reunion at the end of May. The highlight of every Princeton reunion is the P-Rade, in which all the alumni classes join the graduating class for a lengthy trek from Nassau Hall to a distant campus outpost, with large crowds of onlookers lining the entire path. Historically, the 25th Reunion class led the way, right behind the Princeton band and university president. So there I was in the first rank; and there was Erik next to me on crutches, somehow managing to make it the full length of the parade, to rounds of rousing cheers from the onlookers – and an abundance of family pride felt by his father.
Okay, now back to the present. For older classes, and for graduates like me returning after 66-plus years out (who are referred to as “Old Guard”), the university provides golf carts driven by undergraduates. I’ve always scorned these vehicles for myself. And even this past May, I figured my trusty cane would support me all the way through, which is the way I started out.
But, sad to say, after walking past all the assembled classes in which there might be anyone I know, I sheathed my cane and (with Erik’s help) hopped aboard a cart for the final two-thirds of the hike. And that seems to be the direction in which I’m heading in the future . . . .
New subject. A few years ago, as the sharpness of my hearing declined a bit, and Barbara’s frustration with my queries of “please repeat that” came to a boil, I acquired hearing aids. But since I could still hear pretty well on my own and found the earpieces uncomfortable, I used them only a small portion of the time – for listening to lectures, for table groups of four-or-more at noisy restaurants, that kind of thing.
Well, I can see now that (notwithstanding a recent earwax extraction which perked up my hearing notably) I’ll be using the aids a bit more post-90. I don’t like to ask people to repeat what they’ve said. And although I’m still happiest when Barbara undertakes the chore, I can now even fit the earpieces in myself with some effort, when need be. (What I can’t do very well is change the tiny batteries . . . .)
I’m not sure this next one fits under “health”, but I consider it significant enough to bring it to your attention.
Although our six dogs don’t always cooperate, I usually get a pretty good night’s sleep, albeit involving several intervals for calls of nature. The first half of my morning is taken up by modest exercise, breakfast, scanning newspapers, and personal grooming. I’m then able to do productive work during those pre-lunch hours considered to be the day’s peak. I thrive at lunch – perhaps more than I should. But lately, when I hit the early afternoon trough, I tend to get quite sleepy.
In the old days, I used to fight my way through this period, but nowadays I’ve discovered a far preferable antidote that many other oldsters have adopted – taking a short nap. I doze off immediately, (usually on a couch), limit it to about a half-hour, and awake at least partially refreshed and able to hold my own on activities through the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. It’s a new habit that I should have adopted years ago and expect it’ll stick around for the years to come.
Here’s what I can’t help noticing at 90. It’s tougher walking any extended distance, or at any speed faster than sluggish. It’s even tough standing in one place for a long time, as at a cocktail party. Your body wants to slope forward – it’s real work to keep it upright. And getting out of the back seat of a NYC taxi is pure torture.
MEMORY
I’ve written a lot on memory loss, and am reluctant to wade deeply into the subject here. My main essay on the subject was titled “Senior Moments,” a mixed serious and wisecracking assessment on whether the more-than-occasional brain freeze that us oldsters suffer from is something that we should be concerned about on the dementia index. If you haven’t already read this, it can be found at p.318 of my recent book (that I hope you’ve received), Collected Non-Fiction 1997-2023. It will give you something to ponder, as well as some good yuks regarding difficulties that various notables suffer from.
Also, along the way, in my various octogenarian musings on memory loss, I wrote a poem – The Noun Nemesis – that analyzes what type of word is most often hidden from view when you’re trying to utter it. You can find it at p.369 of my non-fiction book.
That “Senior Moments” article leads me into my current story about turning lemons-into-lemonade. Toward the end of the article, there was a section titled, “What we can do to reduce Senior Moments,” which contained some tips on brain training. After some general observations, I personalized matters with the following paragraph.
“I’ve always been a real believer in brain-training. I often start off the day spending ten minutes with a logic puzzle (like Kakuro or Ken-Ken) to get the left side of my brain functioning, and ten minutes with a crossword to jostle my vocabulary. Not only do I feel this has positive effects, but (as I’ve written before) in a world of increasing complexity, it’s reassuring to tackle something that has a single successful outcome – satisfying when achieved, not all that devastating if you come up short.”
Unfortunately, though, in my research I came across an article in The Washington Post which burst my bubble. Entitled “Brain-Training games train you in only one thing: Playing brain-training games,” it cited a then current article in Psychological Science in the Public Interest that concluded as follows:
If you “spend enough time matching colored cards or memorizing strings of letters . . . you’ll start to get really good at matching colors and memorizing letters” – but, unfortunately, there is “little evidence that this training . . . improves everyday cognitive performance.”
So there it was – my personal bucket of lemons. To be sure, I didn’t stop playing the games; but (as mentioned in my article) I was forced to conclude they weren’t improving my performance.
Then one day recently – a day that I proudly received an infrequent “Genius” score on the New York Times “Spelling Bee,” and solved several “Waffle” puzzles, as well as those in the analytical app “Star Battle Go” – the thought that transformed lemons into lemonade suddenly occurred to me:
Success in puzzles and games may not improve your everyday cognitive performance, but it damn well gives you instant proof that you haven’t entirely lost your ongoing battle with a freezing brain.
In other words, the games may not train your brain, but they do validate that it’s still operative – and that’s a helluva valuable service.
By the way, I’m sure some wise guy will note that there’s a possible downside here, to wit: When you don’t do so well in a few of these games consecutively, does that betoken something even worse than just neutralizing the brain validation – namely that you’ve just confirmed your own incompetence?
THE GOLD-PLATED YEARS
I picked the heading for this section as a shorthand reference to those years of our 80’s and beyond – hoping to imply that, at best, it’s a mixed bag. I’ll provide some detail on this in a minute, but first, check out the neat way that Judith Viorst summed up the subject:
My scalp is now showing/ My moles keep on growing/
My waistline and breasts have converged./
My teeth resist brightening,/ I’m in decline,
It’s positively frightening./
A new moon’s arriving, Sinatra is jiving,
My husband is holding my hand./
The white wine is chilling / I’m still alive./
It’s positively thrilling.
For me, driving a car represents a good example of gold-plating. I’m sort of proud to be able to continue at the wheel into my 90’s, unlike a number of surviving buddies who never got quite that far. But to be able to do this and not be concerned I’ll be a menace on the road, I’ve had to make some compromises.
So now I generally take an alertness tablet before heading out, just to make sure I remain wide awake. While on the road, I’ve stopped listening to books on tape or undertaking phone calls, so as to hold distractions down to a minimum. I’ve purchased sunglasses with progressive lenses, so that I can focus equally well on both the road and the dashboard information. All in all, I’m satisfied that I remain qualified to get behind the wheel.
But – and this is a big carve-out – I have given up driving at night. In part it’s due to the lesser visibility once the sun goes down. The main reason, though, is how bright other people’s headlights (now using LED lights instead of halogen) are when focused my way – it can simply be blinding. So I limit my excursions to times when there’ s still plenty of light.
Try this next one on as an example of mixed-bag news. Notwithstanding my usual reliance on a cane, I still play tennis once a week with my buddy Dick Eisner. We’re now in our eighth decade of such shenanigans, having begun back in 1943 while in the 3rd grade together.
I did a blog essay a while back on the subject of “Octotennis” – a primer for fellow codgers on how to adapt our favorite game to the vicissitudes of time. I’ll be following that up soon with “Nanotennis,” which adds some additional learning we’ve absorbed for the new decade, so I won’t go into it deeply here.
Nevertheless, I will admit on this occasion that due to our mutually cranky right shoulders, we now serve underhand. You may well consider this the final chapter of an invalid’s demise, but you’d be surprised what an effective weapon it can be. The variety the server can employ here – on the ball speed, the height achieved, the spin administered, the location of launch – is little short of awesome, to say nothing of the tactics the receiver need employ to resist the server’s advantage. Well, I’ll save the details for the article; but to an aging sportsman, this has proved to be a major positive virtue that begins to make up for lost dexterity.
There is some good news for us oldsters – for instance, W. Somerset Maugham’s dictum that:
Old age is ready to undertake tasks that youth shirked because they would take too long.
Lady Nancy Astor however, formulated a more balanced approach.
I used to dread getting older because I thought I would not be able to do all the things I wanted to do, but now that I am older, I find that I don’t want to do them.
I can’t say that I’ve discovered many clear perks to old age, but stateman George Clemenceau thought he had one when he made this confession:
I am old enough to tell the truth. It is one of the privileges of age.
I realize now that this truth-telling “privilege” of age was a factor for me in deciding to tackle my own life in a recent memoir. It forced me to acknowledge that the insights I’ve chosen to live by have often arrived as a result of a mistake I’ve made or an adverse experience I’ve endured. Also, it encouraged me to be candid in attempting to evaluate myself in terms of my varied pursuits. To be sure, where I thought I was pretty good, I said so (in synch with octogenarian cabaret singer Marilyn Maye, who observed, “At my age, I’m too old to be humble.”) But where I knew my performance was underwhelming, I made sure to talk about that also.
This is as good a place as any to discuss how I’ve been spending my retirement time during recent years and hope to do more of the same into the early 90’s.
Beginning in January 2021, I created a blog that has now been in business for 43 months. Each month during that time I’ve made three blog entries:
One, an essay or short story of mine (or in a few cases, of someone else), presented in text or my vocal version.
Two, a musical entry, usually something that I’ve currently or previously recorded, many featuring just my piano, but others where I’m accompanying fine vocalists.
Three, a montage of photos I’ve taken currently (although a few stem from the past), usually with a common theme (often seasonal or geographic).
I send a monthly email notice of what’s being newly entered into the blog to a list of around 500 family, friends and acquaintances. I have no real backlog, so each month I have to spend time coming up with a new idea and then executing it in the next several weeks. This results in a little pressure (but nothing like the pressure I used to feel in legal practice or mediation) – just enough to keep me alert and satisfied at what’s been accomplished, before heading on to the next month.
My other creative activity is a year-end package that I’ve been sending out for the last 20 years to a mailing list of about 700, – most of whom also receive the monthly blog notices. In addition to holiday greetings and a summary of the year’s events, I usually include a longer work of my fiction (a novella each for the last two years plus a third coming out this December), an album of my newly recorded music (in many cases with my favorite vocalist, Annette Sanders), and a bound portfolio of photos I’ve taken (often with a theme, and many in black & white). I’ve been working on these enclosures all year alongside the blog entries.
I can’t deny that I’m proud to be able to do this and would hope to continue the momentum into my early 90’s. It really makes up for my no longer having an active professional life.
In past essays of mine welcoming the years ahead, I’ve flirted with the idea of really retiring. By this I mean putting aside all items of work (such as adding new blog entries each month) and just sitting down to read a number of the countless tempting books that adorn my shelves or clog up my Kindle, or to watch some of those great past movies that I’ve recorded for future reference, and other essentially passive activities.
But by now it seems pretty clear that I’m not going to do this – at least as long as my mind is capable of writing stuff and my eye is intrigued by potential photos scenes and the intriguing tunes I find myself humming demand to be played on the piano and perhaps recorded. If and when the shift ever does occur, I’ll let you know . . . .
Okay, Freund, now how about some real negatives . . . . Well, excess noise levels are a nuisance that I’m more cranky about than ever. At weddings and other celebrations, the amped-up dance music drives me out of the room. At trendy New York restaurants, the cacophony of voices (often coupled with canned music) not only impedes conversation but undercuts enjoyment of the food (albeit, I must confess, not sufficiently to diminish my diet-breaking intake). I’m grateful that my hearing remains only relatively unimpaired at 90, but it can’t abide these occasional assaults on its well-being.
Here’s a few more gripes. Can I just once put on my pants without stubbing a cuff on my big toe? Can I transfer my daily pills from their safe resting place in the segmented plastic case holding the week’s supply into the small paper cup charged with holding this Thursday morning batch I’m about to take, without one very tiny tablet eluding my aim and plunging to the wet floor? Can I type a single word on the computer without my fat finger striking two keys simultaneously? Can I take a short trip without feeling the need to pack most of my wardrobe and almost every possession I hold dear?
There seem to be a thousand small items that tax my well-being on a daily basis, and I’m ashamed to admit I have no patience with them. They invariably provoke me into uttering strings of nasty oaths. My bet is that I’ll be cursing these same things (and probably some new ones) in years to come.
An offshoot of this is the frustration I feel at how long even the simple tasks seem to take. I’m talking here about such things as the time involved from when I decide to retire for the night until I’ve completed all the stuff seemingly needed for a good night’s repose. (And dammit, it seems to take even longer to reverse the process the next morning.) All of this simply feeds the impatience that I can’t seem to shake.
As for my failure at diets, enough said. I love food, and it’s one of the few unadulterated treats available in old age.
NO BUCKET LIST
Over the past 89 years, I’ve managed to do just about everything I wanted to do. As a result, I don’t have a pressing bucket list of things I wish to accomplish before kicking off.
That doesn’t mean there aren’t things I’d like to do, such as finish this third novella I’m currently working on, continue feeding my blog, and sending out year-end packages. But, I don’t feel the need to continue to do what I’ve done so far – in other words, that pressure is off.
I consider this a good development. Nothing is driving me to do something that may be beyond my present physical ability (such as climbing the highest peak of all seven continents, although I must admit I never contemplated this even in my most salad years), or mental competence (such as writing the Great American Novel, which was always beyond my aspiration). Sure, there are new places I’d like to see, or favorite locations to return to, but traveling is tough for me nowadays, and I can do without those pleasures.
I guess a case could be made that this self-satisfied view isn’t such a good thing – that maybe there ought to be something new and desirable that I should be anxious to do, at least if it’s within reach. And perhaps such an item will eventually come along. But it’s not currently in view, which makes me content that I have already lived up to whatever I wished for.
For those of you who don’t agree with my posture here, you may concur with Judith Viorst, who took aim at today’s ubiquitous epigram in this fashion:
I mobilize the wisdom of a lifetime /
And tell my envious heart, /
“Been there, done that” – /
To which her envious heart replies /
“But I want to be there again /
And do that some more.”
FAMILY, FRIENDS and ASSOCIATES
The following thoughts follow very closely what I expressed in the 80 and 85 essays – at least some things don’t change very much in later life.
As I’m sure most of you would agree, a prime pillar of happiness as we age comes in the form of family, friends and associates. This happens to be an area in which I’ve been most fortunate, so please indulge me while I pay appropriate tribute where it’s due.
Barbara has a wonderful extended family with lots of meaningful relationships. From the outset, the Fox-Hilton clan – Anita and Al, Marjorie and Joe, Alexis and Ali – took me into their inner circle as no mere in- law, but always as one of the gang. In later years, husbands (Josh and Michael) and younger generations (Kate, Charlie and William) got into the act and provided new joy. I stay in regular touch with my cousins, especially Judy, Joni and their offspring, as well as with Pat.
I’m enthusiastic about my warm relations with sons Erik and Tom (and theirs with each other). We share good times, reminisce about joyous moments from the old days, laugh a lot, play music together, also tennis and backgammon. I’m supportive where I can be helpful, and from time to time they actually seek some counsel from the old guy. Erik, who lives in New Jersey, has become very attentive to his aging father in recent years, helpful to me in so many ways. Tom lives a lot further away in California, where he has pursued a successful career as a singer-songwriter, but we stay in touch by phone and make up for the distance on the few occasions when we’re able to get together in person. And the three of us conclude most of our frequent phone conversations with a mutual chorus of, “I love you.”
Each son has sired a child – Tom’s Ryan and Erik’s Paige – and the boys (now divorced from their former wives) are exemplary fathers. The kids (now 21 and 18) are bright, warm, and delightful. Ryan attends Johns Hopkins; Paige will be at U. Cal (San Diego) this fall. My times with them are a real tonic, and I feel their affection toward me is genuine. The sole problem is geography – that these treats can only be savored on a part-time basis. I wish they lived down the block, where I could take more advantage of my good fortune in being a grandfather and perhaps feel like I’m contributing to their maturation – something that’s difficult to do when the time spent together is limited.
But a wife is both a companion for all seasons and a full-time commitment. Barbara Fox and I will be celebrating our 40th wedding anniversary next January – and all I can say is that it gets better each year. The woman is a real dynamo – managing her real estate brokerage firm and handling major residential transactions, rescuing abandoned dogs while tending her own menagerie, nourishing her family, playing tennis, and so on. But, oh boy, with all that, does she ever take loving and supportive care of her guy. The Fox is so consistent – none of those highs and lows that can bedevil other unions – I always know where she stands. And such fun to be with – we’re laughing together and reminiscing and planning all the time. And in such good shape. . . and I find her so attractive. . . . Negatives? Well, I’m not happy about her predilection for throwing out my old magazines. . . . Anyway, you can bet that Barbara is going to do her best to keep me youthful – she simply won’t allow me to wither away.
I think a word is in order here regarding our dogs. I swear that the subject of canines never came up in my conversations with Barbara prior to marriage, let alone being singled out in our pre-nuptial agreement. But in the past decades, Barbara has fallen in love with the critters. At present we have six dogs, at least five of which sleep between us on our king-size bed. I’m relegated to a small sliver at one edge, which requires me to sleep on my side since there’s no room for a full body profile.
The practicalities of the matter are that I’ve got to live with this woman (who’s otherwise flawless), so the only thing I’ll say about our animals is that they’re basically a decent bunch. I do my small share of petting and awarding treats, I’ve managed to develop some promising relationships with several of them, and I genuinely mourn their inevitable passing.
As for friends, I feel blessed – they form an indispensable and disparate multitude. Some of the closest date back to high school and college, with the relationship refreshed each year. Others have been more recent additions – a number of them through Barbara’s contacts. They’re a healthy mix of men and women, contemporaries and younger folk, New Yorkers and geographic outliers. When we get together, we pick up right where we left off months ago. I make a real effort to reach my friends through the annual year-end package I send out, and I’m hopeful that this helps to keep the relationships alive.
I also wish to acknowledge the assistance I receive from a variety of people. At the forefront is my invaluable assistant Raymond, without whose many talents I would simply be unable to remain productive (and keep my sanity) as I cross over into 90 territory. I’m also grateful to Barbara’s driver Gent, our dog nanny/housekeeper Malen and housekeeper Henry, and a host of others.
SOME FINAL WORDS OF ADVICE
About two years ago, I received what I now realize is the best advice to follow in crossing over into my 90’s. But at the time, although recognizing its utility in lessening the impact of life’s pressures. I simply passed it on to my blog followers stamped “without endorsement”.
The advice came from a book by Roger Rosenblatt, titled Rules for Aging: A Wry and Witty Guide to Life. Here, in full, is how Roger kicked off his many offbeat suggestions (although none quite lived up to this one):
It doesn’t matter.
Whatever you think matters – doesn’t. Follow this rule, and it will add decades to your life. It does not matter if you are late, or early; if you are here, or if you are there; if you said it, or did not say it; if you were clever, or if you were stupid; if you are having a bad hair day, or a no hair day; if your boss looks at you cockeyed; if your girlfriend or boyfriend looks at you cockeyed; if you are cockeyed; if you don’t get that promotion, or prize, or house, or if you do. It doesn’t matter.
I love it! At times when I felt pressure building up on me during this last year, I tried to subscribe to Roger’s advice, but with limited success. I’m convinced, however, that in this new decade I ought to shuck my “without endorsement” attitude and luxuriate in the fruits of this excellent counsel – not letting inconsequential matters drive me crazy, as they’ve had a way of doing in all previous decades. (By way of footnote, I am of course excepting from this prescription such really consequential matters as life and death, bankruptcy, and the fortunes of Princeton athletic teams.) I’ve decided that this is the prime birthday present I’m giving myself today.
By the way, Roger was also responsible for a runner-up piece of advice, which I’ve made some progress in comforting myself with these past two years, and which I expect to blossom into full bloom in the decade ahead. Here it is:
Nobody is thinking about you
Yes, I know, you are certain that your friends are becoming your enemies; that your grocer, garbage man, clergyman, sister-in-law, and your dog are all of the opinion that you have put on weight, that you have lost your touch, that you have lost your mind; furthermore, you are convinced that everyone spends two-thirds of every day commenting on your disintegration, denigrating your work, plotting your assassination. I promise you: Nobody is thinking about you. They are thinking about themselves – just like you.
Hyperbole, sure, but, oh, boy, does this ring true! So, those two pieces of advice are among my chief weapons to take on some potentially troublesome years ahead.
END NOTE
I’m trying hard to stay upbeat. I’m helped by performing at each of my gigs my favorite song on the subject – surpassing even Young at Heart and You Make Me Feel So Young – Bob Dylan’s Forever Young, which closes with these stirring lines:
“May your hands always be busy / May your feet always be swift / May you have a strong foundation / When the winds of changes shift / May your heart always be joyful / May your song always be sung / And may you stay / Forever Young.”
In recent years, I’ve been wearing a cap that has the letters “ndy” on the front. When someone questions me about what the letters stand for, I point to the answer embossed on the back – “not done yet”. That’s just the way I feel.
And on that note, I’m ready to get on with the rest of my life . . . .