Growing Older, But Not Up*

We just finished our fourth cruise. Probably because we’ve never been on the mass-market megaships, the demographic with which we travel tends to be older. Carolyn and I are people watchers, and even with our current cohort, there’s plenty to see: interesting fashion choices, rocking, twisting (great?) grandparents, numerous “Greta Gotrocks” flashing the bling.... Any temptation I have to judge, however, must be tempered by the realization that the observer can also be the observed!   

It has taken me a long time to be (almost) completely comfortable with myself; now that I’m at least closing in on satisfaction with who I am, I begin to wonder if I am in danger of becoming the stereotype of the “aging hipster, trying to look cool.” Being cool was never a goal I wanted to attain nor an image I tried to project. The one thing I learned at Hamilton College (where I managed to accumulate almost a year’s worth of credits in my two years, so what I did learn obviously wasn’t too heavy on the academic side) was that if you have to try to be cool, you ain’t. (I need to add this to my Rules o’ Life.)

I’ve often thought, and perhaps even said to students, and others, I suppose, “Grow up!” or “Act your age!” If so, I’m sorry, because I’m struggling with what “acting your age” really means. Who gets to determine what is age appropriate, especially for adults? Who has the right to make that judgment?

While I don’t see myself as the prototypical senior citizen (I’m reminded of my mother’s ongoing complaint about living at Friendship Village, “These people are all so old!”), my age-number, sadly, can no longer be ignored. I now qualify for socialized medicine, full-benefit social security is right around the corner, a 15-year old AARP card sits comfortably in my wallet, “senior discounts” come my way without either a request or ID.... I must tell you, I’m not all that thrilled, although it certainly beats the alternative of my age being irrelevant because my ashes are in a box tucked away in the corner of a basement or even displayed on a mantle.

I’m actually, for the most part, proud of my age and the way I’ve lived my life, but I’m reluctantly starting to wonder if I need to self-impose some behavioral and/or appearance/fashion limits because of it. I admit to above average vanity: I was “metro” before metro was cool (if, in fact, it ever was or ever will be), but it took me too long to accept that part of me and I really don’t want to give it up. (Sigh) Maybe it’s time to forget about my appearance, to not worry about the growth of my ear and nose-hair gardens or eyebrow scragglers long enough to weave a basket.

My body constantly reminds me of certain age-related limitations. I no longer demonstrate sliding technique in softball for fear I’ll look like an “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” commercial for Life Alert. I don’t know if the pain in my elbow is from overuse, arthritis, or gout (this matters because then I have to decide which pharmaceutical remedy to add to my ever-growing collection of daily doses). Every day is an adventure, because while I don’t know what’s going to cause pain, I do know that something will before I fall asleep. My life features more daily aspirations than inspirations. I’ve learned, much to my chagrin, that the “Old Fart” baseball cap/t-shirt is more an early warning system than crude humor. I gave up a great job, in part because I no longer had the energy or motivation to give to my kids what they deserved (nor did I have the energy to keep fighting a system that continually encroaches on the professional autonomy of teachers).

It’s not that I work at trying to look young; it’s really more about trying to look how I want to see myself, although I do admit that I am also unwilling to look any older than I have to. I mean, I don’t even want to shop at Abercrombie & Fitch (for a variety of reasons; I certainly never was close to their target demographic) or Hollister, but neither do I want to be consigned to an image arbitrarily assigned as appropriate for someone of a certain age. I know dowdy is an unfair and unflattering adjective usually reserved for women, but.... I’m not now, and I’m not sure I ever will be ready to give up looking how I want, even if someone else (young or old) thinks I look silly. I refuse to accept limitations imposed by conformists with a rigid sense of acceptability or style.

Neither do I want to become the object of ridicule, however. That has always been my Achilles heel. While I know, intellectually, that people aren’t really thinking about me (Rule #7), I have always been overly self-conscious. Who knows, I might have actually enjoyed dancing without the benefit of therapeutic beverages. Being myself, however age-inappropriate some might find it, remains a struggle, just less of one.

The pace of my successful search for answers and self-acceptance continues to slow even as the rate of my declining number of days seems to accelerate.

Well, I think I’ll make that Jimmy Buffett song* (see title above) my new ring-tone and call it a night. It is, after all, almost 10 p.m, and I still have my daily 30+-minute skin care and oral hygiene regimens to finish.

Book Review: The Circle

This near-future novel by Dave Eggers has generated a fair amount of buzz and generally good reviews.

What is the logical extension of a Googlesque company (rebadged The Circle) knowing even more about you than it already does? What are the implications in terms of privacy? The scary thing about this book is that it doesn’t seem at all far-fetched. Google already tells me how often I’ve visited a site, personally tailors my search results; Amazon can pretty accurately predict what I may want to buy; iTunes suggests media based on my music library. I get cheery “Hi, Bob” greetings from innumerable sites. And FaceBook’s targeted ads are just scary close.

You’re reading this on my blog, to which you’ve either subscribed or linked via Twitter or FaceBook. We’ve already voluntarily given up so much of our privacy that the next steps suggested in the novel don’t seem at all outlandish. The technology is both conceivable and existent, for the most part. It’s just a question of organizing and harnessing the data, which is where The Circle comes in.

I’m not “slippery slope phobic,” although I recognize the theory. I think the argument is most often used to hang on to the past or to try to fend off an inevitable future. I tend to be a progressive and believe that change is not only inevitable, but that the pace of change will continue to accelerate. I also think that any lines drawn in the sand will be erased by the morning tide or next storm.

The Circle posits a social media company with the power to not only influence but control our lives. It’s definitely a cautionary tale worth considering. Still, I had to plow through it to the end, and it was heavy going. The true-believer protagonist (definitely no heroine) was neither likable nor sympathetic. I finished the book not because I cared what happened to her but because I wanted to see if the train would be derailed. 

Having spent time “camping” with the true believers I understand how momentum and inertia can take over so that you stop looking at anything except the gilded end-result. I probably steam-rolled my share of doubters, so convinced was I that my idealistic goals more than justified whatever collateral damage might have resulted. (This is quite possibly hyperbole, at least from my perspective; true believers tend to overestimate themselves, but also tend to ignore others’ pain.) I eventually evolved to consider other points of view.

The Circle is too frightening and too realistic to ignore. Whether that future can (or should) be avoided, whether it’s inevitable, those are important questions. I’ve written before about the downsides of secrets. Go ahead and discuss these issues among yourselves. I don’t know that you need this book to do it, though.

Thanksgiving Blessings Warmed by Hanukkah Lights

As Thanksgiving and Hanukkah coincide this year, I thought I’d take this unique opportunity to reiterate how much I gained from the four years I spent teaching at Schecter/Mirowitz; that starts by being thankful to my first head of school, Rabbi Allen Selis, who opened the doors to that learning community and allowed me to join.

I’m thankful for the warmth and welcome from my colleagues, kids and parents. I’m thankful for the opportunity to have watched faith in action. I’m thankful for the four different Jewish studies teachers I shared a room and time with – Michael Raileanu, Sarah Miller, Rabbi Ari Kaiman, and Rabbi Suzanne Brody – who were always happy to answer my questions and even let me participate when I couldn’t keep my mouth shut (unsurprisingly, a not uncommon occurrence).

They weren’t the only ones who shared their faith with me, of course. While it would take too much space to list everyone, Sue Albert, Rabbis Mordecai Miller and Carnie Rose, and Susan Low were more than generous with their time and knowledge; Rachel Armoza and Cyndee Levy expanded my culinary horizons. One of the beautiful things about hanging out with Jews is their willingness and desire to share their faith and culture, but without trying to impose their (incredibly, wonderfully diverse) values and beliefs on you.

Finally, I’m thankful for all the parents who shared their wonderful children with me, who trusted me to do my job and to care about my students in my own way. Some of those parents became my friends, and I don’t just mean Facebook friends. So did some of their kids. But all of my students from those four years will join so many others, from Hancock and Webster, as fond memories in a blessed life, illuminated and warmed this year by the glow of Hanukkah lights. 

Bully for You -- You've Got Self-Esteem

Is it too embarrassing to admit I’ve read Dear Abby, Ann Landers and a host of imitators (but props to Carolyn Hax, who pretty much calls them like she sees them) for decades and will probably only desist when newsprint ceases to arrive on my lawn? Oh, well, too late.

In a recent column, a mother who said she had been bullied as a child because she had low self-esteem wondered how to protect her own children from the same fate. Abby opined that instilling strong self-esteem prevents bullying.

Nonsense. Self-esteem is more like a bulletproof vest; it can definitely shield you from permanent damage, allow you to get through the assaults of adolescence, and definitely bounce back more quickly, but it won’t keep life (or bullying) from hurting – a lot.

Our daughter was bullied throughout sixth grade; it was a miserable year for her, despite the fact we had, from infancy, made a mindful and determined effort to instill a positive self-image, to the point that we occasionally wondered if you can go overboard in making your kid feel too good about herself/himself/themself. Then middle school hits (in some cases, though not hers, literally) and you come to realize you can't create a shield too thick for that miserable period of life.

During my year of penance as a middle school guidance counselor at Hancock, I used to tell kids, “You know, you’re supposed to be miserable, right? No sane adult would EVER go back to their middle school years. I'd be thin and have hair, could avoid lots of mistakes. I still wouldn’t go back.” (Okay, I used the same line with the high schoolers, too.) Most of the kids seemed to get it.

To be honest, once I made my escape from 7th grade, more or less intact, my own experience in those years wasn’t bad, at least in terms of relations with my peers, but we hadn’t invented self-esteem yet, and bullies only counted if they physically damaged you. We were mostly just expected to suck it up and move on. Actually, in high school at ISOB (International School of Brussels), we played an affluent white-kids version of the dozens, almost as a hobby. I held my own; good training for classroom teaching. 

I do understand the need to protect kids from bullies and intimidators, from meanness. I also recognize that social media has become a dangerous game changer. Schools do share responsibility for, at a minimum, making their environs a safe place for all kids, even the ones who don’t quite fit the prevailing social norms. However, I also worry that we’re now overprotecting kids to the point of robbing them, in a sense, of the ability to develop the toughness and coping skills that will allow them to compete in an increasingly cold adult world, one that features bullying as the primary campaign tactic of a former president (and may he remain thus; if bullying is a despicable toxic trait for middle schools, how much more despicable for an allegedly grown senior citizen).

To that point, you may have noticed all bullies don’t magically disappear after middle school. Some evolve. Most of us have had bosses who were bullies, colleagues who were bullies. Sadly, some have suffered from bullying spouses; I hope you have, at least, divested yourself of “friends” who were bullies. The point is (finally, you gasp) that the strategies we need to deal with this kind of person develop through experience. We can’t depend on our parents, the school, or the HR department to protect us all the time, at least from the name calling and petty tyrannies that are the weapons of choice for bullies.

Like most things, I don’t have complete, or perhaps even partial, answers. Another of the “joys” of aging (at least for me) is the growth of questions and the dearth of answers. Still, for parents, grandparents, and others who care, it’s a question worth pondering.

Originally written in 2013, updated to reflect current political situation.