Funny how things change when you get older. I spoke a little bit about what I was going through turning twenty-nine in a previous post. Now I am approaching thirty (an age I am more than excited to reach) and I am beginning to take notice of a few aspects of my life, which are aging with me.
The most recent incident was while at the Thursday/Underoath show I attended. (I’d apologize for using the reference again, but I don’t give a shit.) In preparation for the show, I got myself all jazzed up to make my way into the pit to mosh and dance. However, once it reached show time, I found myself enjoying the show more merely singing along, taking in every nuance of the performance. I’ve been doing this recently at shows, but this was the first time I noticed myself sitting back and taking it all in. (I did dance a little when “Understanding In A Car Crash” started.) It’s like, as I get older, I don’t mind NOT being all beat up and bloody after a show.
The other thing I noticed that night was how the members of my favorite band also we’re beginning to age. The six members are all about the same age as myself, but you could see them slowing down as well. The music they put forth was as pure and amazing as ever, but Geoff Rickly, the lead singer, wasn’t as animated as he was a decade ago when I saw him tear down the Starland Ballroom. This isn’t a bad thing, only an interesting observation of how time moves on.
Gearing up for the age of the thirty also makes me look at the shape my body is in. Honestly, I’m in the best shape of my life since I’ve been in since college (I earned my size thirty-two skinny jeans). I ran over five hundred miles training for this year’s marathon, covering several distances greater than ten miles, and doing in very quickly. Sadly, due to a possible stress fracture in my right ankle, I didn’t get to participate in the forty thousand meter race this morning. It was a tough decision to put myself on the disabled list, hearing ghosts of past coaches telling me to push through the pain, and my own pride calling me a lazy asshole. My body won’t recover as quickly as it could even five years ago. And I love, love, LOVE to run, so the last thing I would want to do is risk taking myself out of the game permanently. If I have to ride my bike for the next week, then so be it.
I’m not trying to say thirty is old either. I’m not my sister telling me she feels like an old lady at twenty-five. (I know she is exaggerating most of the time, she runs almost as much as I do.) I never would have guessed at my age I would be any sort of competitive runner, but I’m out on the streets every night. I scan myself into the freak show known as Gold’s Gym three nights a week to tone up. I’m also awake every Sunday morning bright and early with fourteen of my buddies playing softball. I’m pretty much as active now as I was when I was swimming four hours a day in high school.
It sounds so cliché, but obviously you are only as old as you feel. My dad at fifty-five still weighs the same he did in high school and goes on twenty-plus mile bike rides as often as he can. He also recently took up weight lifting again, which can only add years onto his life. I helped my friend’s dad get back on a bike at age sixty-one and now you can’t keep him off it. He’ll go crush thirty miles in the valley, then before bed, do another hour on the stationary bike in his office. I’m still waiting for my dad to come visit so I can see these two duke it out on Dad’s challenge: one hundred and fifty miles from San Diego to LA.
Also, I quickly wanted to touch on my whole cutting back on the booze. I’ve slowly started having a drink here and there, but only for special occasions. For the most part, I want to continue to enjoy most of my week alcohol free. I hung out with the boss and another producer friend for St. Paddy’s day, I think I can allow myself a beer or two between old friends. I’m mainly over the feeling like crap the next day and having to apologize for being an idiot, which can easily be avoided by enjoying a tall glass of club soda.
I’ve seen what it’s like to give up. There is a gentleman, who shall remain nameless, who frequents a certain drinking establishment, one, which I tend to spend, as some may say, a little too much time in. He is sixty, a mere five years older than my father, who looks like he’s at least twenty-five years older than pops. The short story is he never expected to live that long, so he has pretty much given up on trying to do anything with his life. I assume he’s retired and spends the majority of his waking hours just being. Not doing much, I occasionally see him riding his bike around, but I know when he’s at The Whaler, he sits there, not saying much, watching the world converse and move on around him. It’s a bit of a bummer. If my life ever comes to that, someone kick me square in the nuts.
Age is simply a number. Time moves forward. The world evolves. These notions are what make life interesting. If age, and time, and on a grander scale, life, were constant, then everything we’d hope to experience would have the possibility of being pre-determined.
I don’t know about you, but one I’ve learned is change is not only good, but also necessary. I think if I remained the same person, and never attempted to be better, or funnier, or learn a new skill, or look at things from someone else’s point of view, or lose weight, or question authority, or run from here to Manhattan Beach, then I would live a very boring life. And that sounds pretty lame to me.
[PS: Oh, and if dick and fart jokes ever stop making me laugh, someone kill me.]
We never grew out of this feeling that we won’t give up…
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