The Pleasure of Aging
In 1975, the song “Wildfire” by Michael Murphey was a modest hit. I was six years old. It is the saddest song I have ever heard. In my mother’s brown Pontiac, “Wildfire” would come on the radio and I would turn my head to the window so she wouldn’t see me cry. The tone, the lyrics—almost fifty years later, I still can’t listen to it without tears in my eyes.
It came on in a store the other day. “Wildfire” is one of those songs that brings me back to a place and time, with all of the sensory memories. The rectangular buttons on the car radio. The smell of stiff vinyl seats, and the feel of the ribbed knob on the metal window crank handle. My mom’s tangerine lipstick. Itchy polyester dresses. Flipping through albums stored in my parents’ heavy wood entertainment console, complete with TV, turntable, and AM/FM radio.
I think about those times a lot lately, about what kids are missing now. I worry about the future of the West, because technology has displaced imagination. There is so little curiosity. Unless something changes, the future will be managed by a tiny handful of people who actually know how to do things. It’s sad, and not a healthy development for humanity.
I am nostalgic for the seventies and eighties. Even the nineties. I consider it the Beforetime. It seems so long ago that my memories are like a movie I once watched, and yet once in a while something will come back to me in a memory so powerful I can taste it.
Yesterday my husband and I reminisced about church bazaars, and I was transported back to the basement of the First Christian Church across from my grandparents’ house. Little old ladies who knitted doll covers for the extra roll of toilet paper, or who sewed plush Christmas trees from fabric scraps. Instant lemonade and dry brownies. The bathroom with a heavy wood door and squeaky pipes.
Don’t let anyone tell you getting older is bad. Don’t fall for it. Midlife is not a crisis. It’s fantastic.
When I was in my twenties I was an idiot. I made stupid financial decisions, stupid relationship decisions. In my thirties I thought, now I get it—but I didn’t. More struggle, more bad decisions. When you’re in your thirties, you are still on the hamster wheel trying to prove yourself.
If you are not yet forty, you have a lot to look forward to. All of a sudden, one day you will know real confidence. You will conduct yourself differently. You will not fall for nonsense like you once did.
If you are not yet fifty, it gets even better. The confidence of your forties will crystallize. You will say no and not feel weird about it. You will no longer tolerate bullshit. A sense of authority will come out of nowhere. You will know what you are good at, and what you shouldn’t bother with. There is a letting go of indecision and uncertainty, and a true happiness in doing so.
If we look at life the right way, without wasting energy trying to row backwards, each season is meaningful and natural. I am closer to death than I was twenty years ago, and I’m okay with that. Tragedy has not broken me. Happiness comes after a trial. There is real pleasure in simple things.
I have endured more than fifty years, and I’m okay. I’m more than okay.
If I have any advice for my fellow middle agers, it is this: stop eating sugar; cut out most carbohydrates and processed foods; eat meat, eggs, dairy, nuts, vegetables, a little fruit. Read books. Go for walks. Get outside. You don’t have to join a gym or run a marathon. I changed my diet several months ago, after researching the very bad nutritional advice our government gave us for decades, and I feel like a different person.
Savor your memories. Listen to “Wildfire” and be thankful you were born in the Beforetime.