Saving \ Secrets \ Self-employment \ Selfishness \ Sex \ Sexism \ Shopping \ Sighing \ Singing \ Size \ Skin \ Sleep \ Snoring \ Solitude \ Sports \ Stinginess \ Stoicism \ Suicide \ Superstitions \ Surprise \ Survival
Saving is what survivors like us do instinctively. Money aside, we save things we know will come in handy, as well as things that are worth saving just in case they become useful. We can’t help ourselves, even though we’ve vowed to downsize (ridiculous word, like something Alice might do in Wonderland), and get rid of all our clutter to make it easier for our children when we’ve gone. It may be that we are influenced by the example of our grandparents (my grandma scrubbed tinfoil and saved it for reuse) and our parents, who stockpiled everything from toilet paper to canned food long after the war and rationing had ended. And there were no sell-by dates in those days: You kept stuff until it stank, rotted, or, in the case of cans, blew its top. Though our own lives have seen the longest period of peace in Europe ever recorded, we still have the memories of war imprinted on our minds, and part of us wants to hoard stuff in case of disaster. But as our children, benign products of the age of obsolescence, won’t touch food that’s out of date, our saving is something of a wasted exercise, and they covertly or openly mock us for it. Unlike their attitude to our saving money . . .
Secrets are not all that safe when we grow forgetful about who we’re not supposed to share them with. I’m not known for my discretion, but I can still persuade friends to tell me their secrets, because at our age gossip is as highly prized as when we were at school. There are few things more thrilling than betraying a confidence and knowing it will in turn be betrayed: It’s not necessarily malicious but more like a game of hot potato where you want to get rid of the goods to avoid paying a penalty. Of course, if someone younger confides in you and swears you to secrecy, you have to honor your vow, though if you suspect they might harm themselves, or others, you should be devious enough to warn those who can prevent that happening, and then protest your innocence to the one you have betrayed. They won’t believe you, but it’s better than saying you did it for their own good, and they might even be grateful, or you can so comfort yourself. As for our contemporaries, after a glass or two most of them are ready to spill the beans to anyone within hearing, but as the whole point of having secrets is sharing them when you shouldn’t, who can blame them, especially when we’d do the same? See also Betrayal.
Self-employment is for those of us who are too bullheaded to work for someone else, and who have the energy, confidence, and communication skills to persuade people to use our services. As we still (I trust) have much to offer, we can either use our knowledge and expertise to become consultants, or we can become entrepreneurs and find a gap in the market to do something that nobody else is doing or, if they are, do it better. It’s risky, of course, and you have to work harder than you ever did for some company or corporation, and make all the important decisions as well as take responsibility for anyone you employ. But no one can fire you, unless you do something illegal or go bankrupt, and if you’ve gotten it right, which with all your experience you freaking well should have, you’ll wake up each morning looking forward to the next challenge. Or at least with a list of things that’ll keep you busy.
Selfishness at our age is a way of surviving, and may also be a protection against being let down after an embittering experience. You don’t get to be seriously old without looking out for yourself, unless you’re a saint, and if you’ve reached that enviable point when you don’t really care what other people think, putting yourself first comes naturally. Ideally you shouldn’t cultivate selfishness to the point when no one else will come near or care for you, unless they’re being paid, but it’s perfectly possible to combine being selfish with judicious generosity that will encourage others to do what you want, and even love you for it.
Sex slows from a fiery tango to a stately waltz. I have never quite believed those men who say they are relieved to have reached the age when they no longer feel the sexual urge, which someone compared to being unchained from a devouring monster. Most people don’t stop thinking about sex when they grow older, they just don’t do it as often. That’s surely not because we lack the opportunity, since most of us no longer work full time. It’s because at our age consensual sex requires tact and diplomacy, and if penetrative sex is the objective, there is the real possibility of failure. Men tend to bury memories of coital catastrophe, but past disasters loom large when the equipment fails to respond to the urgent demand of its owner. Like accusatory ghosts, they can turn haunt into humiliation, which can only be banished by medical help or, better, a sense of humor. Of course, sex at our age needn’t involve penetration. A good cuddle can work wonders if the partners have the time, patience, and desire to please one another. And there’s still time to learn something new, provided you’re prepared to put aside years of reticence and actually talk about what gives each of you pleasure. Though aging bodies slapping against each other can seem faintly ridiculous, conversation can turn embarrassment and frustration into an enjoyable experience. The most active organ in the body—apart from the heart and brain—is, after all, the tongue.
Sexism has no place in our culture or society, and those who abused their power to force themselves on people who wanted nothing to do with them sexually have lived to regret it. This isn’t political correctness, it’s learning from experience, and though we weren’t perfect, nor were most of us exploitative monsters. We who matured in the 1960s tried to behave like good guys, and if we can’t modify behavior that is now deemed inappropriate and treat people of different genders with the respect we expect ourselves, we’ve made no progress and should be ashamed of ourselves.
Shopping can be a treat as long as you can afford it, but people divide into those who look for something particular, and those who go shopping not knowing exactly what they want, except they know they want something. And there’s division over the technology, of course: Shopping online is so easy once you get the hang of it, I’m amazed anyone wants to spend their time and money getting to an overcrowded shop on overcrowded roads and then wasting hours dithering over what to buy, squeezing the fruit and sniffing the veg, when you can return stuff bought online if it’s not to your liking. Even going into a bookshop, which naturally I support and encourage others to do, renders me brain-dead within minutes because I’m overwhelmed by choice. Of course I recognize the social value of going shopping, and though I can usually think of things I’d rather do, my curmudgeonly attitude always vanishes when I meet someone I can gossip with rather than trudging the aisles.
Sighing is something we do far too much of. We sigh when we sink into our chair and when we get out of it, when we bend over to take off our clothes and when we struggle to put them on, when we get into bed, walk around the shops, prepare a meal, or do the dishes. It’s not like puffing when you’ve walked up a bit of a hill, or having to take a rest because you’ve overexerted yourself, it’s not a grunt of pain or a squeak of surprise—our sighing has become a reflex, a soft and comforting exhalation that we hardly notice. It makes us sound as if we’re sorry for ourselves and bearing great burdens with noble fortitude, and we should really tell ourselves to stop it.
Singing is one of the most enjoyable ways of showing off in public, and if you’re not very good at it no one will know, apart from the people on either side of you. As a leisure pursuit it is good for posture (you have to stand straight in order to let your diaphragm swell), the lungs (you have to expand them fully and breathe properly), and the brain (whether or not you can read music, you have to work out where the tune is going and how your part fits in with the others). It’s sociable—a good leader or teacher attracts singers from all over the place; it gets you out of the house and helps combat stress by making you concentrate on producing a lovely noise to the exclusion of all else; when it works it’s an incredibly satisfying achievement to which you all contributed; and if you’re really eager, you and your group can give a little concert for an audience who may be even older than you are. And unlike a book group, you don’t have to do homework unless you can’t resist practicing when you’re alone.
Size matters, even at our age. Not your chest or your penis, but the bit in between, for starters: If it’s pear-shaped you attempt to disguise it, if it contracts you worry you’ve got cancer. Those of us who aren’t tall should have given up worrying about our height years ago, but as we all shrink as we grow older, people who haven’t seen us for a while may think we’re disappearing altogether. When it comes to possessions, if once we were concerned about having a bigger house/car/garden than our neighbors, now we fret over whether their largeness is too much for us to cope with. At least size is irrelevant where conversation—the glue that holds us all together—is concerned: The tongue is one of the most active organs in our bodies and, like our hands, feet, and head, its size never alters.
Skin is amazing at restoring itself, but bruises, grazes, cuts, and wounds seem to take forever to heal at our age, even if you are accustomed to keeping yourself elastic with moisturizer. The unblemished sheen of youth becomes mottled with moles, warts, lumps, bumps, freckles, and liver spots; hairs sprout in places you don’t want them and cease to grow in places you do; and the veins that used to lie delicately beneath the surface now make themselves as obvious as knotted string. Lines, creases, wrinkles, and furrows are all evidence of use or abuse, and while skin is marvelously accommodating when it comes to containing the parts that swell, it also sags and flakes and droops and forms folds that become tricky to clean. Of course if you can afford it you can have your blemishes sliced off, your hairs stripped, your wrinkles smoothed, and your saggy parts tightened or plumped up, but our skin is the living and inescapable testament to everything our bodies have experienced, and we should be proud of it in all its flawed but marvelous cragginess.
Sleep See Insomnia.
Snoring is one of the few things that inspire murderous thoughts in otherwise stable couples. Both genders snore at our age and both protest that they don’t; men may snore more loudly than women, mainly when they’re drunk, but they stop—temporarily, at least—when prodded or shouted at, or they wake up with a resentful “Whatsamatter?” and, infuriatingly, fall asleep again. My wife mutters “Sorry” when I bounce on the mattress to stop her snoring, and of course I would also apologize if I believed I was really disturbing her, though the noise is obviously made by her or the Snore Fairy. There is no effective cure other than separate bedrooms, if you can afford them. And you can always come together for a healing cuddle.
Solitude, as opposed to loneliness, is an admirable demonstration of character and self-sufficiency. I’d like to think I could manage it if I had to, but I suspect I’d fail. Solitude means enjoying your own company, keeping yourself entertained and stimulated, being responsible for your own actions, and not caring if you don’t see another soul. If you’ve been in a relationship and are suddenly bereaved, you may withdraw into solitude to come to terms with your grief, or escape the well-wishers who, however well intentioned, won’t leave you alone. If you’ve never been, or had the chance to be, solitary, it’s an opportunity to try something punishingly different, knowing (if you don’t leave it too long) the world will welcome your return. If you take to it, it’s fine until you fall or get ill or incapacitated, and though you might be able to rely on social services, it could be difficult to readjust to the proximity of other human beings. But there is something noble and antique and ascetic about choosing solitude in a world so inextricably interconnected. You just need an inner strength not all of us possess—certainly not me.
Sports See Games.
Stinginess creeps up on us unpredictably and makes us stubbornly refuse to open our wallets or flash our credit cards, the way a horse will inexplicably refuse to jump a fence. It’s not an act of prudence, like saving, it’s an atypical fit of miserliness, usually provoked by outrageous prices or demands that are suddenly too much to bear. We think of it as an individual act of rebellion against crass commercialism; others will view it as mere meanness. They may shake their heads, but they will probably follow our example.
Stoicism, or fortitude in the face of misfortune, is a front we keep up for the sake of our friends and family. But while no one likes jeopardizing a reputation for strength by crumbling in a moment of weakness, there are times when we need to show that we are still capable of being scared or overcome by emotion. We need it for ourselves, because being brave all the time is too hard, and quite boring, and others need to know we’re not superhuman. Or not always.
Suicide: When I was young, I thought anyone who talked about killing themselves was just seeking attention. I was wrong, several times over. Now people of our generation talk openly about suicide when they are desperately ill and have no quality of life. They don’t want to be a burden to those around them, and seek an end to their suffering. The law in most states is currently against them, but that might change. I support dignity in dying, but I learned a lesson from neighbors who told us—and their children and anyone who was interested—that they would commit suicide before they became incapable of looking after themselves. They’d been scarred by having to care for their own parents and were resolved not to hamper their children’s lives. At the time, we all thought they were acting from the noblest of motives and willingly witnessed their signatures on a declaration of intent that attested they were of sound mind. We and their children were in our thirties, they were in their early sixties, and we never thought they’d do it. But they did, a few years later, and far from admiring their resolve, we and their families were stricken with grief, guilt, and fury. Instead of respecting their selfless sacrifice, it was perceived as a gesture of pure selfishness. They were perfectly fit, and unlike the suicide of someone for whom life is unbearable, our neighbors’ deaths seemed like a ridiculous waste. As it usually does, to those left behind.
Superstitions stay with even the most skeptical of us. I don’t mean knocking on wood when talking about how healthy we feel, I mean those little hangovers from our childhood like not opening an umbrella indoors or walking under ladders. We invent new superstitions, too—one of mine is that if I get to a certain point on my daily walk without being passed by a car, I’ll have good news from a publisher. This may have happened once, and crystallized into a superstition because I wanted it to happen again, but of course it’s pure wishful thinking, as well as an attempt to insure against disaster. It’s also a belief, diluted almost to invisibility like homeopathic medicine, in things beyond our understanding: We’re a superstitious species and we keep our fingers crossed.
Surprise sustains a relationship, and can also destroy it. You can do something unexpected for your partner that makes them realize how joyful and generous you are; you can do something unexpected to your partner that shows you’re an unreliable shit. Without surprise there’s boredom, and we all know how fatal that is; with surprise come consequences, the unpredictability of which can itself be surprising. But life’s a gamble, and at our age who can resist a flutter?
Survival is hard to live with if all your contemporaries have died or moved to Australia, and infinitely harder if you’ve survived the death of a child or younger friend. You struggle to carry on, you wonder if it’s worth it, even though we’re all being threatened with longer, healthier lives. You grieve, and you get over your grief, because that’s what survival involves, and if you survive long enough you become someone people congratulate, even venerate, not just because of your age, but because of your history. Our parents went through the losses of one or two world wars and survived, most of them with less psychological damage than seventy years of peace has inflicted on us. Survival is something to celebrate, providing it gives you more pleasure than pain. At least you don’t need advice on how to survive, because you’ve managed perfectly well without it.