On turning 39

So I turned 39 this week. 

I don’t know how to feel about that. I think, when I was young, quite unsurprisingly 39 seemed ancient, but now that I’m there I’m not so sure anymore. I mean, it is old compared to 21 but really quite young compared to, I don’t know, anything over 40. Is it just me or does age seem less about maturity as well? I think of 39 year olds when I was young and I don’t recall them acting this, well, young – or immature, if I was to be critical. The whole bar on maturity seems to have been pushed back. I saw a surfer, skin like leather and not a day under 80, carrying a surfboard and hobbling along; what was he doing carrying a mini-mal when he should’ve been at home re-gripping his Zimmer frame? It all seems out of whack.

But you try to stay with it. So as part of my post-38 rehabilitation, pre-40 shake-up I’ve started gym. Not your usual kind of gym which would be okay because people leave you alone, but the kind of gym where you have a young, muscled gentleman in your face the whole time asking if you’re okay. Well, would I be white as a sheet and complaining I want to vomit if I was really okay? This was Thursday and he was the same gentleman who, on Monday had taught me how to use a kettlebell.

This is not advanced actuarial science, I thought to myself, as he placed a kettlebell on the ground pointed at it, and said, unremarkably, ‘This is a kettlebell.’ He didn’t exactly take it to the next level when he meaningfully offered, ‘It is basically a weight with a handle on it,’ again pointing to the ground, to the kettlebell, which is self-evidently, exactly that - a weight with a handle on it. I half expected him to start pointing out others things: ‘That’s a chair. That over there is a window. Those are glasses for drinking water. Say with me…’ But then he proceeded to lose me at every turn: ‘You pick it up like this, there are six points – up like this, then swing to here, then drop to there, then activate this muscle, then lift to here and place in this groove before elevating it to this position.’ It was WTF. He lost me at point two, like when you do the fine dining thing and the waitress loses you in the explanation of the second main meal which was a line-fish you’ve never heard of sitting on a bed of some previously unknown vegetable that has inexplicably been reducted, and you lose your way because you’re listening out for fries and none of these dishes seems to come with a side order of that and that worries you and you get distracted wondering whether it would be okay in a restaurant like this, where each dish is filled with such ornate stuff, to order you know, just a side order of fries.  Part of maturing in years is not being able to keep up, in any sphere. It didn’t help that the woman sharing this newbie class positively glowed, swinging the kettlebell around like a baton and exclaiming, ‘I think I’ve got it!’ which, the gym instructor proudly proclaimed, was so. And this young woman, who up till this moment I’d rather enjoyed having in class, became Arch Enemy Number One.

So, when I went to the first class, was practicing the art of not vomiting while telling the trainer I felt like vomiting, and receiving a meaningful diagnosis of what I was doing wrong, which involved something about shallow breathing, I began to second-guess this whole undertaking. The instructor I really like but in that moment I could’ve punched him except for the fact that I was so exhausted I probably would’ve missed and buried my head in the massive canister of magnesium carbonate powder standing like a shrine in the middle of the floor - gym chalk I would’ve been using had I actually achieved the goal of lifting the kettlebell above my head.

‘I will get there.’

 I tell you this because this is what the trainer told me. I know I’m not the only one; I used to do spinning and saw a guy, an Ancient One – at least mid-forties – being carried out of the spinning class, feet hanging limp behind him, arms over the shoulders of two noticeably younger, more virile human specimens. He was being dragged out like a soldier returning from the beaches of Normandy with a story to tell. He too, now that I think about it, should’ve been breathing more deeply. As they passed me by, presumably off to the Virgin Active rehab centre, or onsite mortuary, I thought to myself, now there is a poster you never see in a gym. No, it’s all smart, successful looking young things, glowing just perfectly as they lift, squat, and punch themselves to even greater heights leaving others, like me, covered in the feeling of guilt at never getting there. There is no poster with a picture of a guy like this with the slogan, ‘Come join us, we’ll help you stare into the yawning abyss of your own mortality’. No. That’s why they call it advertising.

This, folks, is a kettlebell.

 

So it is hard. But life’s journey is obviously more than the shape of our bodies and the depth of our lungs. I buried a man this week. He died at the age of 92 and had a dry sense of humour which freed me to crack my favourite old person funeral joke (What is the best thing about old age? No peer pressure). He was medically boarded at 40, died at 92. That is 52 years of retirement. That is 14 years longer than I’ve been alive, I thought to myself, a thought that made me feel young, so I held on to it for a bit. 

But the most remarkable thing was his kindness; people commented on how kind he was, compassionate, transporting the elderly, sharing his time, remembering birthdays, listening.

And it made me think of a story. Jeff Bezos, in a commencement address at Princeton, mentioned a life-altering conversation with his grandfather; a man of few words. Jeff, given at a young age to analytical thinking, recalled being on a trip with his grandparents. He noticed his grandmother smoking, remembered reading an article on how smoking shortens lifespan, quickly did the mental arithmetic considering the amount she smoked over against its detrimental effect, and proudly proclaimed that, at this rate, his grandmother would lose nine years of her life. His grandmother began to cry. His grandfather stopped the car, took him outside, and utilising the few words he had set aside for the day, said to young Jeff, ‘It is harder to be kind than clever.’

It is harder to be kind than clever. This is the kind of profundity you could build a meaningful life around.

As I inch towards the middle years, and as it gets a touch harder to do the stuff that came naturally to me as a younger man, I see some things are getting a little simpler. That maybe the whole thing has been a lot simpler than I ever thought.

I love Fred Craddock’s consideration of life’s meaning that came to him in his twilight years:

“When I was in my late teens, I wanted to be a preacher. When I was in my late twenties, I wanted to be a good preacher. Now that I am older, I want more than anything else to be a Christian. To live simply, to love generously, to speak truthfully, to serve faithfully, and to leave everything else to God.”

 

I love that. I hope to grow into it.

There are all sorts of questions that we will be asked in life. Some very important, some about what our lives will be like and what our meaning will be, questions around our contribution, and our legacy. Questions about what we consider to be the Deep Truth of our lives and existence. Then there are other questions, questions designed just to get us through the day, questions a gym instructor might ask while slapping your face and calling for water:

How many fingers am I holding up?