Sucking the Marrow of Life

My friend lamented turning 30 today. She despaired the end of her youth and her inevitable decline into old age. Being 47, I found her both hilarious and a little heartbreaking. I did my best to console her, which is a challenge given that I’ve recently developed strong opinions about fiber.

I find it funny how often we treat aging like a cliff we accidentally walk off, rather than a road we’re lucky enough to still be on. I understand the fear, but as I’ve gotten older, my dreams have become even bolder, and life has proffered even more possibilities.

Part of that, I think, is luck. A lot of it, maybe. But I’d like to believe some of it is also the result of years choosing curiosity over cynicism.

Though life has thrown more complications and challenges my way than I would like, I genuinely feel much younger than my age. I still have the thirst and passion for adventure, and I still aspire to accomplish my Big Hairy Audacious Goals (Built to Last, Collins and Porras, 1994). I still want to live deeply, in the Thoreauvian sense—just not necessarily in the cabin-in-the-woods sense. I still appreciate the comforts of running water, electricity, and the internet.

My body, of course, occasionally reminds me that I am not 25. It does this through mysterious joint noises and an evolving list of foods I can no longer eat after 8 p.m. But despite that, I don’t feel old. Not really. I’ve come to realize that even my body can be convinced to deteriorate a little more slowly—and perhaps more gracefully—as the years roll on by. I now appreciate my green vegetables, working out, and facial lotion with SPF. I’ve come to value quality sleep and taking my vitamins. I’ve come to appreciate what my body has to offer—and its need to be taken care of.

Would I want to be in my 20s again? Yes, absolutely. Was that when I peaked? Hardly.

I believe the best has yet to come.