If you’ve been reminiscing to younger folk about your salad days, surround yourself with elders and tap into your curiosity.
Even though I wish I could say I’m all about going forward, I still find myself looking behind more than ahead. Yes, of course, that has to do with the actual number of years on both sides. And much of it is just plain nostalgia. Well, as Joan Baez famously wrote in her anti-love song to Bob Dylan, “Think of another word for it.”
Ten years ago, I wrote a widely read piece in The New York Times. The subject was aging. Specifically, how it felt to suddenly be the oldest person in many rooms. I interviewed others and told my own story. At the time, I was a returning college student, drawing rolling eyes from my youthful comrades when they learned I was in their group projects, including field trips. (At least until they heard I had a car.) I recalled drawing laughs when I was once asked by a prof if I happened to have a memory chip, and I had to admit I didn’t even have a memory. You get the idea.
So now, how do I deal with being a decade older, seeking sanity and even hope? We’re all different, but here are a few personal decisions I’ve made to place myself in rooms in which I’m far from the oldest and buffer myself from those jokes and questions about what things used to be like, way back when.
Take on a new challenge
Shortly after that piece ran, I was asked by an NPR station to report about theater. A new beat! Since then, I find myself going to two or three shows a week. Well, you likely know the average age of theatergoers (mostly due to prices) — especially at matinees: Yes, there’s a tad more snoozing, and some understandable confusion about overly-woke casting. (Wait..he’s Black as an old man, but white as his young version?) But stage supporters are back, and I’m grateful to be among them.
Next, after almost a decade of exercising via Zoom, I not only re-signed up at a gym but chose the 92nd Street Y, which isn’t known as a young person’s place. Suffice it to say, I’m far from the oldest in those rooms. (The fact most had the nerve to go gray likely helps my “youthful” status — or does it?) I once made fun of the Y’s locker room talks about performers from a generation or two ago, like Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé. After all, I was talking about Dylan and Simon. Now, three or four times a week, I find I’m chatting with fellow stretchers about what they’ve seen, and what they’ve read — which is generally a lot — and about today, not yesterday.
Perhaps most importantly, I’ve come to lean on and learn from (personally and professionally) those who are my elders. In my local coffee shop, I hang now with one Arnie Fisher, who is about to turn 95. Yes, he has serious trouble hearing, but this man knows so much. When I mentioned that I was taking a lecture series on William Faulkner, Arnie informed me that he’d done his college thesis on the author. Suffice to say, he became my in-house tutor.
My favorite professor from my time at Columbia, Carol Gluck, has just retired after decades of sharing her knowledge about World War II. We’re getting together next week. I guess another tactic for avoiding nostalgia, “they don’t make them like they used to” living is getting back in touch with those who impacted me. We can share what we’re doing today and our plans for tomorrow versus regaling younger folk with tales from past decades. I’ve even started attending high school reunions for the first time (and, I dare say, more guys have crushes on me now). Is this all a way of putting together the parts of a life? Sounds like a Sondheim lyric.
Get inspired by elders
My recent writing has kept me looking ahead, too; I’ve profiled subjects who aren’t content to rest on their laurels, such as 84-year-old theater writer/actor/director Austin Pendleton (two plays upcoming); Doris Kearns Goodwin, whose latest book deals with her marriage and the ‘60s; and Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler, both in their 80s, whose new book is about love letters from occupants of the White House. The most moving play I’ve seen recently takes place in a church and stars 84-year-old Len Cariou, portraying a dying man offering gems of life lessons to a former student. The show keeps getting extended. I love that word more than ever.
I can’t hide from the length of my own history, though our Millennial children aren’t impressed by much of it: “You were just interviewed for a book about Tom Hayden? Name sounds familiar,” and “You were among the first Americans to go to China. Huh?” They are, however, proud that I warned listeners to remember the name (and I spelled it) Timothée Chalamet on my radio show after seeing the then-teenager in a play.
Keep curious
Despite that pop culture win, I admit that sometimes I do miss the old days. I’d be happier never having to look at a tattooed neck, a lululemon’d butt, or a thong bathing suit. I resist driving at night and arrive everywhere too early. And, of course, I’ve mourned many deaths that tend to accumulate. As my dad used to say, “All these people are dying who never died before.” It does feel that way, upon finding the nerve to check the obituaries daily.
Yes, there are constant challenges and deeply felt anxiety about the politics of the country and world. But I still tune in, try to contribute, and cling to the thing I have never lost: my curiosity. It’s the number-one challenge to nostalgia, and I’m determined to hang onto it. I’m currently clinging to an email from a friend with whom I reconnected at a reunion. “Michele,” he wrote, “you are truly the youngest 75-year-old I have ever known.” Hey, I’ll proudly take it.
This article was originally published on NextTribe.com. Michele Willens recently published a book of essays called From Mouseketeers to Menopause.
