I know I write a lot about the “joys” of aging, but I read somewhere that you should write what you know . . . and this is something about which I know way too much. So today I’m thinking about another aspect of life in the senior lane: letting go.

Not the big stuff, like when your children start to grow up, and — despite all your efforts to keep them close — they ultimately make the final transition from childhood to adulthood and have the audacity to begin living their own lives. Nor am I referring to letting go of material things when you finally decide to downsize once all the kids are gone.

No, this is something even more unexpected . . . more insidious. I’m talking about letting go of elemental parts of your life, and of yourself. One after another, and another, and another . . . until one day you look in the mirror and you wonder who the hell that person is who’s looking back at you.

See the man looking in the mirror there? He’s asking himself what on earth has happened to his skin? Where did those lines, wrinkles, bags and jowls come from? And his hands — are those blue things his veins he sees popping up everywhere? Then there’s the scalp. He’d noticed a while ago that his hairline was receding, but this is ridiculous. Clearly, that’s his father he sees looking back at him . . . isn’t it? “Please say it is!”

Sorry, sir . . . it’s time to let go of your memories of that nice taut complexion you used to have. If you’ll roll up your sleeves, you’ll also find that those veiny hands are attached to a pair of matching arms. And speaking of taut, have you checked out those abs lately? No? Well, pull up that sweater and let’s have a look.

“Holy shit! What’s going on here??!!!”

“What is that? I look pregnant, for God’s sake. And when did I get man boobs? How did I let myself go like this while I’ve been busy raising a family and working toward retirement?”

Well, you just answered your own question, sir: you let go. Maybe a little too soon. Oh, well . . .

And now, looking at that gut, you can understand why you’re not able to play racquetball anymore. For one thing, the waistband of your sport shorts insists on sliding a little too far south. But more important is the way you start to puff, pant and perspire after the first few minutes of play. Sorry, but it looks as though it’s time to let go of that club membership too.

So you try to cheer yourself up a bit by taking the wife out for a nice dinner at your favorite seafood restaurant, where you can get some great food without piling on too many calories. Of course, you need a good bottle of wine. Then the waiter brings the complimentary cheese rolls, specialty of the house — with that wonderful herb butter. But you’re being good, so you order a lovely piece of mahi-mahi: good protein, good for you, right? Of course it is — if you ignore the bed of rice underneath it, and the beautiful lemon-butter sauce that it’s all swimming in. But it has asparagus on the side, so that’s good. And you forgo the mud pie for dessert, and settle for a nice light creme brûlée. Good boy.

But while you’re on the way home, trying to rationalize to your spouse the three-day allotment of calories you’ve just consumed in the past two hours, you realize that you’re not feeling too well. You’ve got this strange burning sensation in your chest and throat, and you can’t hold back the repeated belching sounds emanating from your mouth. What the hell is that about?

Don’t worry — it’s probably not a heart attack. Welcome to the wonderful world of acid reflux, GERD, and perhaps even a hiatal hernia. You can no longer digest a meal like the one you just packed away, and you’ll likely never again be able to. Call your doctor tomorrow, make an appointment to be on the safe side, and then let him give you a prescription or two . . . and a good, long lecture. Then let go of the foolish idea that you still have that cast-iron stomach you used to brag about. Sorry.

Now you’re really in need of a little cheer, but you don’t want another restaurant disaster like the last one. Luckily, you’ve just learned that one of your favorite rock bands from your teen years is still alive and well, and coming to your city soon. So you score a couple of tickets, even though you know the wife won’t be interested; you can always find an old school chum to go with you. And off you and your buddy go on the big night, fighting your way through the crowd and acting like a couple of kids again. “But why doesn’t this feel like it used to? How come the lights are so bright, and the noise level so deafening? And what’s that I smell? Pot? Really, guys . . . aren’t we a little past that? Besides, it’s illegal.”

Then the band finally comes onstage and the crowd roars. “God, that’s annoying! Sit down, already . . . I can’t see through you. And shut up so I can hear the music. Which, by the way, doesn’t sound like it did 40 years ago — those guys are looking old! Seriously, what am I doing here? This sucks.”

Let it go, sir. Those days are gone; you can’t relive the past.

*. *. *

And there you have it: the progression of life. We start out as helpless infants, and spend the first couple of decades learning the basics: how to walk, talk, feed and dress ourselves, then it’s off to school for an education. After that, we have careers, relationships, travel, marriage, kids, and suddenly we’re middle-aged. And that’s when the letting-go begins, and gathers steam until we reach the golden years. Which is what all the earlier years have been preparing us for: the luxury of sitting on our asses all day, letting our kids and grandkids do all the hard work while we finally get to do the things we never had time for when we were younger — the things that don’t require much physical exertion. Time to relax.

So it’s not really that bad after all, is it? Letting go, I mean. Remember: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven . . .” *

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/6/23

* Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.