Last Saturday, I had coffee with my running and walking buddies after our morning exercise. There are times when the coffee drinkers who have neither run nor walked that morning outnumber the rest of us. The conversation, as usual, is a rich collection of the intellectual to the mundane. You never know what you are going to get: stories of breaking news, workplace drama, humanitarian kindness, culinary expertise, family member accomplishments, and the like. Sometimes I contribute to the conversation, and sometimes, I just zone out, listening to the rhythm and the cadence, the familiar communication among close friends.
This Saturday, those of us of a certain age started talking about social security benefits, and for some reason it cracked me up. How on earth, I wondered, did we get so old? It is not that all of us are drawing social security, but a few do. Several of us have created profiles on the social security website and have used the calculator to estimate our benefits.
It is profound to think about someday being on the public dole. But that is just the tip of the iceberg. It is really about coming to grips with aging. And honestly, I am firmly in the grasp of Father Time these days.
I remember when I first thought about getting old. I was approaching my 40th birthday, a prospect that made me a bit sulky. I was running on the Seattle waterfront with two of my law partner friends, and I mentioned that I felt that the expansion of life possibilities had ceased, and that they were contracting ever so slightly. My family and marriage were well-established, as was my career. I was a partner at a large Seattle law firm, the pinnacle of success for some. But the idea that I would stay there another couple of decades made me hesitate.
But it was not just my family and my career that seemed anchored to predictability – it was every facet of my life. I felt that the routines of my existence were engraved into concrete. I imagined that I had run out of time to pursue passions and travel and adventures. I recall that one of the two people running with me, who was about five years young than I, grunted sympathetically, but it was clear he could not relate to the way I was feeling.
But I had no idea what was to come. The next 25 years would be full of the most extraordinary happenings. I would leave Big Law and start my own law firm and fill it with brilliant and hilarious folks. I would make new friends that shared my sense of adventure for travel, running, and biking. I would become so fascinated by the idea that the habit of exercise could be lifesaving, that I wrote a book about it. I would find the resources to build a vacation home in the mountains that would become a haven for our entire family. My life would continue to be vigorous, energetic, captivating, and, at times, challenging beyond comprehension.
And most of all, I had no notion that watching my young children grow up and evolve into adulthood would be so entrancing. I knew my kids were smart and capable, but I did not predict their confident intellect and their unbounded creativity. They do not need me anymore. If I died tomorrow, they would be angry and sad, but the compelling draw of their worlds would not lessen for one minute.
And through it all, the mysterious beauty of my long-term marriage, silent in its complete and implicit understanding, occasionally frustrating, but comforting, steadfast, and absolute.
If I leave this earth tomorrow, I will have no regrets about how I have spent my time. There are bike trails that I have yet to ride, an upcoming retirement to enjoy, and, just perhaps, a future grandchild to spoil. But I know now, what I did not know when I was 40 years old, that life continues to unfold, forever, with potential and promise no matter what your age.