The tragedy of getting old

You wake up one day, look in the mirror, and see a wrinkle. Maybe you have the epiphany that 8-year-old you would be having way more fun than old, grumpy you. You start referring to the torture of each passing year, not as growing up, but rather as getting old. It's a cruel punishment, to find yourself on this unstoppable meat machine to the grave, though the crime that deserves such torture is never revealed. Is it existing? To have the courage to get up each day with the full lucidity that all of this is approaching a rapid halt?

It's a comedy up to this point. A billion lives navigating the world with so much passion and pride, unaware of the fact that it's all for nothing. And then you see the wounds of time that batter your flesh. You feel the slipping memories and learn to forget. The light is fading, the audience has left, and yet you insist that the play is just getting started. The tragedy of getting old.

The disturbing truth in all this is that we rarely feel our age. We feign respect and dignity when young, believing ourselves to be mature beyond our years. And then, as many dawns pass, we long to be seen as fun, flexible, and Forever 21. But the naivety that brought us such joy and wonder in our early years has given way to rot; malnourished through years of cynical politics, traumatic relationships, and the eternally futile quest to feel right in this world. It sounds similar to depression but truthfully, I'm just getting old.

But there are also all sorts of good things about this process, don't get me wrong. For one, we tend to familiarize ourselves with solitude. Perhaps this is out of adaptation. Those we once loved grow apart from us, change, move, or die. As we extend our time here we grow accustomed to the idea of letting go and moving on. It may seem odd to think about, but our Facebook friend directory will one day become nothing more than a digitized obituary. Your loved ones will die and you will continue getting old. Sorry for all of the dark "your friends will die" stuff. I forgot that this was the section where I talk about the good things. Like solitude. And yes, it's a good necessity but that doesn't make it any less valuable. It's a useful tool to be in good company with yourself. Dealing with the certainty of loss requires a strong appreciation for silence and self-love. An inability to adopt such a taste can lead one into solitude's less welcoming cousin; Loneliness. And no matter how solitary one may find themselves, to be lonely is but one of the many cruel and natural reactions to getting old.

Certainty. Finality. Closure. As we grow older we tend to believe that these feel-good hallmarks are growing ever closer. True love will be found. Our purpose uncovered. Our revenge served cold and our bridges reconstructed. Perhaps this does happen. But there's no guarantee. You are just as likely to die alone, unsatisfied, unwelcome, and unaware.

The good news is that there is one thing you can be certain of and the bad news is that it's the undeniable truth that you're getting old. So make friends with the truth. There are so many paradoxes, illusions, uncertainties, and worries throughout one's wrinkling life. Debt, success, the weather, insurance. Why not make peace with that which offers us a brutal link with reality: that we are like all else, doing our best until the curtains are drawn. The alternative is a tragic one, in which you struggle against the passing of time, an admittedly stubborn opponent.

At the very least let this pass: the beautiful and tragic certainty of time spent and lost; of getting old.