Downhill from Here

The British author-diplomat Duff Cooper once divided the ages of man into arbitrary three-decade increments: From birth to 30 is youth, and from 30 to 60 years is middle age. Early last month I descended, irrevocably, into old age.

Photo Credit: Matt Collins

Now, I know that 60 is the new 50, and for good or ill, I seem to be in reasonable health. I also know that reaching the age of 60 is not necessarily a perch on the sliding board to death, and that people are living longer now than they did in Duff Cooper’s (1890-1954) time. But the milestone is still a shock—and a paradox as well. Of course, I am not the first person in history to see mortality coming into sudden (and unexpected) focus, or to wonder where the years have gone. The past is another country, as L.P. Hartley said; but the past is equally omnipresent. My youth seems very far away, but the intervening years have raced by unnoticed. I suppose this is the consequence of leading a busy life.

For which I am grateful. To be sure, if life were to be lived again, I would do one or two, maybe three, things differently. But on the whole I cannot complain: I’ve done things I wanted to do, visited places I yearned to see, achieved a station in life that would have pleased, perhaps surprised, my younger self. To the standard accoutrements of a happy life—alluring spouse, inquiring mind, accomplished children, contented beagles, even a SmartCar—may be added the ability to play jazz piano by ear, a decent clothes sense, the experience of witnessing some historical events, a first edition of The Great Gatsby.