Chapter 24: Searching for the Fountain of Youth, Reflections at 70
On an 8th-grade essay test, I chose to write about Ponce de León and The Fountain of Youth.
I was 13, and shouldn’t have been fascinated by the perpetual quest for eternal youth.
Yet I was. Even at that age some of us sense that getting old won’t be fun.
I was right. The physical part of aging is relentless. I anticipated not being able to run as fast, jump as high, or lift as much weight. What caught me by surprise has been my struggles with putting on shoes, taking off pants, and getting up from the ground.
So, yeah, I get it. I get why there’d be an obsession with looking and feeling young. I’ve (obviously) always gotten it. But I especially get it now.
__________
Two things can happen to us.
We can die before we get old.
We can get old.
Given the choice, most of us would choose #2. (And I’m betting that anyone who says #1 is under 30.)
__________
After I left the Florida Keys and Montel (at The Turtle Hospital), I headed north on I-95. I stopped for one night in Daytona Beach. I checked into a surprisingly inexpensive hotel right on a beach—a beach where people drive cars on sand that feels like concrete.
Anomie: a social condition or feeling of normlessness—feeling utterly disconnected from the values, structure, or collective rhythm of the society around you.
I felt that way a lot on my trip (and during my life), but it was especially powerful in Daytona. Some of it was that I’m not into cars or car culture, but it more about being alone, surrounded by people vacationing and enjoying each other.
Feeling apart from everyone and everything, my next stop was the legendary Fountain of Youth in St. Augustine—ironically, America’s oldest city.
Because physicality has always been an important part of my self-worth, aging has been an adjustment beyond getting dressed and moving freely. It has stripped my confidence.
I used to feel like I looked better with my clothes off than on. Not anymore. No matter how many weights I lift or miles I run, I’m never going to look or feel at 70 the way I looked or felt at 60. Or 50 Or even 40.
Duh, right? Avoid the obvious. Focus on being grateful that I’m still here. That there are things I have at 70 (grandchildren), that I didn’t have at 60.
But, dang it, wouldn’t it be sweet if this place was real?
There is no contemporary 16th-century evidence that Ponce de León was searching for a fountain of youth. :(
What is real with regard to feeling, if not young, renewed?
For me, it’s all about gerunds—doing stuff. Exercising. Reading. Writing. Studying. Learning. Working. Playing. Traveling. Caring. Helping. Loving.
Often, I wonder if any of it matters. I mean, why bother?
But I’m terrified that as soon as I stop doing stuff—and believing that the gerunds matter—I’ll not just be old, I’ll feel old.
That even if I’m not dead, I might as well be.
