No doubt about it, we have a love-hate relationship with age.
On one hand, we pay lip service to the white-haired wisdom that comes with the passage of time and the experience of years. On the other, youth -- at least the illusion of such -- governs the choices we make in everything from makeup to magazines and now, possibly, president. If Sen. John McCain wins in November, he would be, at 72, the oldest person ever inaugurated as a first-term president, beating out another Republican, Ronald Reagan, who was 69 when he first took office.
When my friends talk about this never-ending campaign for the top political job in the nation, the discussion is as much about McCain's age as Barack Obama's race and Hillary Clinton's gender. This, after all, is the era when the calendar is no longer a barrier to ambition and dreams. Former presidents jump out of planes to celebrate their birthdays and postmenopausal women bear babies with the help of reproductive technology.
In other words, 70 is the new 50. Or we hope it is.
The debate over whether McCain is too old to be president speaks to a larger issue in our society, one that most of us will eventually wrestle with. When is it time to quit work? Are there jobs, activities, hobbies, fashions that should remain the exclusive territory of the young -- or the less old? What does it mean to act your age? Can experience compensate for the loss of mental acuity?
Is age just a number?
Improved medical care and healthier lifestyles have extended our life spans. It's no longer unusual for people to live well into their 70s and beyond, and I know of several people in their 80s who still don shirt and tie to head to the office for a full day of productive employment. Surely our definition of old has changed and will continue to do so as baby boomers -- the generation that once proclaimed anyone over 30 shouldn't be trusted! -- reshape the landscape of retirement.
Yet there is no denying that the relentless march of days affects our energy, our reactions, the very way we handle the obstacles and pleasures of life. This isn't necessarily a negative thing, simply a fact of life. You might be fit and healthy, mentally alert and strong of heart, but even the vigorous among us will feel the call of time.
I am, for example, among a statistically small group of people who go to the gym every morning, something I began to do only when I hit my 40s. I joke that it took a bad back and clothes that didn't fit like they once did to convert me to the religion of exercise. Still, my body is not what it used to be. My memory is headed the same way. That's reality.
At least once a week I listen to some middle-age buddy complain, ``I'm so tired all the time, and I don't know why.''
I know why. The incredible machine that is our body inevitably begins to fail and falter regardless of the number of oil changes and tune-ups. Even as we slow the process with exercise, even as medicine prolongs our years, the question remains of how much more highway mileage we -- McCain, you, me -- can get out of this classic chassis.
I suspect we won't know until we try.
