Getting older is a bitch — (and/or becoming one)

Jazz Dance ¬ 0619
Jazz Dance ¬ 0619 (Photo credit: Lieven SOETE)

I had dinner recently with my friend G, a fellow writer. As we settled into a local restaurant for dinner — the music way too loud for comfortable conversation — we both kept saying “That music is too loud!”

Getting older is a bitch, kids.

What we really were talking about was how to handle the indignities and annoyances of aging.

We’re not that old, but we’re past 40, and things do start to look a lot different by then; friends have died far too young, parents are starting to become frail or ill and the endless mountain ranges of ambition we always planned to keep scaling are starting to just look exhausting.

“I’m going to be such a bitch when I’m older,” she said calmly. Me, too.

Because you’re running out of time, energy, strength and the endless determination to bounce back — from illness, divorce, a crappy betrayal, a crummy job.

Because, for better and worse, you simply have less stamina, physically and emotionally, for bullshit. If someone is petty or cruel or stupid or deceptive, in the old days I would have fake-smiled and sucked it up. Today? You’re gone!

Because…you can.

You don’t have to kiss as many butts as in your gogogogogogogogogo 20s and 30s, when you’re desperate to get into the right college/grad school/jobs/marriage.

Here’s a fab post from feminist site Jezebel about why your 30s are do-or-die, baby!:

What’s going on, I think, is the path-diverging choices that come with growing up. The thirties aren’t wildly different from your twenties, except for the part where the stakes feel so much higher. The carefree feeling of going out every night is replaced with a nagging voice that now reminds you of the repercussions, of what you should really be doing instead, and of the choices that may be slipping away, whether they are career, family, or fun. You are suddenly, irrevocably unable to waste time in the same way without chastising yourself.

By the time you’re in your 40s and beyond, you’ve done much of that, often several times (see: jobs, marriages.)

And we’re learning (resentfully!) that our energy has limits — even as she and I admitted to sitting at our computers for 10 hours a day when we write a major story.

I still, (thank God), can read without needing glasses. I still head off to jazz dance class and kick as high as some of the praying-mantis-thin chicks in their 30s. I plan to be back on the softball field this summer, after a three-year absence due to injury, surgery and recovery.

I’m also finally happy to see that my retirement savings — mine alone, even as a freelancer in a recession — have hit a number that actually makes all those years of scrimping feel worthwhile. I’d so much rather be in Paris/wear Manolos/drive a new car, but that growing number is deeply comforting.

Softball!
Softball! (Photo credit: * NightHawk24 *)

My role model is a woman on our floor, soon to turn 98. She recently fell, off the toilet, cutting her cheek and shoulder so badly she needed stitches. Her live-in nurse, who I see often, said, in awe: “She’s so strong!”

That’s what you need as you age. Strength: of character, of mind, body and spirit. A network of solid, loving friends. As much cash in the bank, and/or income, as you can possibly scrimp, scrape and save — start now, young ‘uns!

Aging also means less patience for whining or negativity. If you’re healthy, solvent and alive you’re way ahead of a lot of others starting their days with an IV in their arm or wondering when to finish making out their will or wincing in pain with every step.

By the time you’ve done a few decades, you start to feel like a grateful survivor, because you are.

The other night, for fun, I decided to Google a former beau, one of the most fun people I ever knew, a journalist-turned lawyer who fought hard for the rights of workers who’d been screwed over by their employers. Instead, to my shock, I found his obituary — dead of cancer at 57. It feels unimaginable.

It’s not.

Here’s a loooooong blog post on the topic, by an Australian blogger, with her 15 tips on how to age gracefully.

How do you feel about getting older?

Be Thrifty – Or Else

An assortment of United States coins, includin...
We'll need a lot more than that...Image via Wikipedia

Being cheap is the new black, writes Daniel Akst in the Wilson Quarterly (you have to pay for on-line access), quoted in The New York Times:

To be thrifty, after all, is to save, and to save is not only to keep but to rescue. Thrift is thus a way to redeem yourself not just from the unsexy bondage of indebtedness but also from subjugation to people and efforts that are meaningless to you, or worse. Debt means staying in a pointless job, failing to support needy people or worthwhile causes, accepting the strings that come with dependence, and gritting your teeth when your boss asks you to do something unethical (instead of saying “drop dead”). Ultimately, thrift delivers not just freedom but salvation — which makes it a bargain even Jack Benny could love.

Margaret Wente, writing in The Globe and Mail, wonders how anyone — save the fortunate few with defined-benefit pensions — will actually survive retirement without a pile ‘o cash:

Because of imprudence, misfortune, a vast shift in cultural habits, or the sheer financial drain of supporting their kids until age 28, they are facing their old age with no savings, no pension and few assets. I have no idea what they’re going to do. All I know is that there are plenty of them. For the first time since we introduced old age pensions, millions of people who’ve led comfortable, middle-class lives are facing a big drop in their standard of living when they stop working. No more salmon teriyaki for them.

“A large chunk of the baby-boom generation is on the verge of retirement with only the state to depend on for a retirement period that will be, on average, the longest in Canadian history,” writes consultant Robin Sears in the magazine Policy Options. “We were pension pioneers. But we’ve lost our way.”

Whose fault is it that we don’t save like Grandma did? Is it ours, for crashing our savings rate below zero, and not being disciplined enough to resist the siren call of easy debt that’s been relentlessly marketed to us for a generation? Whose fault is it that we’re living longer than anybody has before, and screwing up the actuarial tables? Whose fault is it that the vast majority of us fail to save at least 10 per cent of our earnings starting at the age of 30, the way we’re supposed to? What about the single mom who’s put her kid through university, or the highly creative guy who is stupidly hopeless with his money, or the manager who got laid off at 57 and has to dip into his savings, or the millions of conscientious people who pay shocking fees to the investment industry to mismanage their RRSPs? Should we blame them, too?

You can see the problem here. Saving up for your old age is an individual responsibility. But helping you do it is a social one.

It would be nice if we could be more like the Chinese, who save 40 per cent of their money. That’s because they know they might starve or die from lack of health care if they don’t. The danger is that we’ll wind up like the Japanese, who suffered a huge economic hit in the ’70s and ’80s. Millions of retired folks were forced back into employment to support themselves. Former doctors took jobs as parking-lot attendants.

As someone self-employed, it’s not an issue I take lightly.

It’s a big pile of ifs: If my partner and I stay together, married or not, I’ll be OK, if his pension is still there; if Social Security pays out to us both what our statements tells us it will; if we keep saving 15% -plus percent of our incomes every single year; if our carefully chosen and diversified investments don’t tank; if , when we finally tap our accumulated capital, interest rates aren’t where they are now — a smack-in-the-face 1-2 percent on safe, secure holdings like CDs.

Now there’s a fair recompense for all that thrift!

If we bust up, it’s Friskies and a cardboard box for me! If I still own my home, and the mortgage is paid off, and if I can afford the monthly co-op maintenance fee, my only possible salvation from penury will be a reverse mortgage. Because my writing income isn’t nearly where I want it to be, and I can’t see suddenly doubling or tripling it for the next decade consistently, (believe me, I’m trying), my projected SS income wouldn’t get me through a month right now. There’s a comfy thought.

The old three-legged stool: SS, pension and savings is missing a leg — the pension — for most of us now. The second leg, savings, is a perpetual challenge when gas is $3/gallon and wages are stagnant or, in my industry falling to 1970s rates. Hey, change careers! Assume $10,000 to $75,000+ in student loan debt and cross your fingers that shiny new job market is all perky and welcoming when you graduate, competing with people willing and able to work at half the wages because they’ve still got five decades to save.

If they do save.

I recently interviewed, for my book, a single 51-year-old with a Master’s degree and $40,000 of student debt. Canned from her non-profit job a few years ago, she makes — wait for it — $7.25 an hour working retail. She couldn’t possibly save a dime and lives thanks to hand-outs from her 82-year-old mother. Her life is not quite what she planned.

One friend, 16 years my junior, is scrambling harder and harder and harder, like a hamster on a speeding wheel, to earn what she needs. Like us, she and her partner don’t even have kids. They are stylish and fun, but live very frugally.

Our “old age” is now.