Running Out of Fives

“Every time that I look in the mirror, all these lines on my face getting clearer.”

Steven Tyler – Aerosmith

This is a lyric from one of Aerosmith’s best songs, Dream On. Penned by Steven Tyler at the ripe old age of seventeen, he showed great wisdom in trying to grasp the concept of difficult journeys and the frailty of life. Quality thoughts from a teenager.

The teen years. Dark hair. Tight jeans. Loud music.

The fifty plus years. If hair, gray. 550 Levi’s. Loud music? We’ll go somewhere else.

Bathroom trips. Plural.

The breakfast buffet includes a bad night’s sleep, with an order of sore back and a few crispy strips of tight hamstrings.

I can recall being twenty-three and playing on a softball team. Our starting shortstop was thirty-two and in exceptionally good shape. In fact, he was the best athlete on a team of younger guys. Funny thing, when writing this, I don’t even remember his name. However, I do remember thinking how cool it was that a guy that old could still play so well.

That old?

By age thirty-two, we had two kids in school, two car payments and a mortgage. I started feeling like the old guy on the team. Thirty seemed a galaxy away from nineteen, which was a worry-free, on-going party.

Forty came and went.

So did fifty.

Now, we’re on the back nine of the fifth decade.

My wife said it perfectly as she “celebrated” her last birthday. “I’m running out of fives!”

Running out of fives. How did this happen?

Like Steven Tyler, I also struggle to fully understand this process. Except I’m fifty-seven and not stoned.

“I know, nobody knows, where it comes and where it goes”. Steven probed about the past.

Great question.

Where does the past go? It vanishes like vapor into the air, only to rain back down as the present. The significant experiences are stored in our memory banks. The less important, more abundant past are grains of sand in a memory desert. Most are never thought of again.

However, some past experiences, like injuries, tend to resurface. They were written in invisible ink in the original blueprint for age fifty plus.

“Remember me?” said the nasty scar unapologetically to the central nervous system.

A cold, rainy, or damp day can trigger pain and soreness. As can turning the wrong way or lifting too much. Or simply bending over.

Or having just one beer too many. The recovery period is not like it was at age twenty-five.

Once I reached across a table to grab a pen and it felt like a meat cleaver was thrust into my back. This was not a 350 pound pen. It was just a pen.

Sure, by age fifty, most people have suffered an accident or gone through a medical procedure. If they have not, it is simply on back order. Operations, stitches, and staples are all done in permanent ink.

But scars are the tattoos of survival. They are proof that a life was being led and its bearer has done what it takes to continue.

The nastier the scar, the tougher the person.

By this point, we have seen and been through our share. Some wounds are physical and some mental and as life goes on, there will be more.

Doctor appointments are no longer rare and there is an endless assortment of tests like MRI, CAT, and PET. The “O’Scopy” and “O’Gram” families are a few probable acquaintances, not welcome on St. Patty’s Day.

But there is something about this process that makes you stronger. Smarter. Wiser.

What you do and where you do it involves a bit more thoughtful planning. Sparring with mixed martial arts fighters is something I would pass on but would gladly pay to watch the Foo Fighters perform.

Then there is what you eat. A bag of Double Stuff Oreos washed down with a twenty ounce Chocolate Extreme Blizzard probably isn’t as wise a choice as a granola bar and a banana.

But that does not mean we are not having fun and leaving room to wing it sometimes. Just to prove to myself I still had that renegade spirit, I walked around the kitchen table quickly while holding scissors. Evil Knievel would be proud.

Upon completion, I was mentally prepared to go swimming right after eating and not wait the recommended forty minutes. Unfortunately, we don’t have a pool and it was 49 degrees so I could not do it. Still felt like a daredevil though.

So even if the sixes are right around the corner, it’s okay. It is said that fifty is the new thirty, which would make sixty the new forty, even if fifty-seven occasionally feels like seventy-seven. This new math can be as confusing as Hulu. Or is it Roku? Vudu? Now I know how my dad felt when struggling with his VCR.

Speaking of which, he is about half out of nines. I’ll shut up now.

This column originally appeared in the Times, a Shaw publication