How to Avoid Disappearing

It was only after turning 58 I realized that for some time I had been slowly disappearing. At the time of that eye-opener I had returned from six months in the Dominican Republic and was in the process of readjusting to American culture. On a fall Saturday afternoon I was walking in the Mall and looked at a bank of store windows across the main concourse. Not only did I see my reflection in the glass but also that of a group of young women in their early thirties. Although they passed close by, I received not even a casual glance as they strolled along, chatting gaily. And that’s when it hit me. They didn’t see me because I had started disappearing. My substance and identity were fading as I grew older, a consequence of living in a culture that places its highest priority on youth and vigor.

The implications of that realization took my breath away. Without knowing when it had happened, almost as if it were a gate I had passed through without noticing, I had morphed into the age at which few people care about you, especially not the marketing gurus desperate to determine the right niche to target (meaning which youth group), nor attractive young things honeypotting for mates, who look past people older than 40 as though they were invisible. Naturally, I had done the very same thing when I was younger and much more physically attractive than I am today. Who hasn’t? I mean, why on Earth would a 34-year-old guy check out a 60-year-old woman? Hey, at that time of my life it wasn’t a topic worthy of consideration. 

Today, I’m in my 60s and the topic has fresh importance. Now, I look women my age with a critical eye to see if she’s a G-MILF, which stands for Grand-Mother I’d Like to Fuck. 

Several years after that initial flash of insight about what it means for older guys to disappear, it struck me that for the first time I truly understood Ernest Hemingway’s suicide. He was about the same age I am now when he jammed the shotgun barrels in his mouth and pulled both triggers. If you read the body of his work and Carlos Baker’s biography you quickly come to an appreciation of a vital, energetic, virile man who either celebrated life to the fullest or gave a strong impression of so doing. Okay, close to the end he may have become a pompous gasbag weighed down by a variety of injuries and infirmities, many of which were serious, and took his life in the remorseless grip of black-dog depression and rampant paranoia.

But here’s a different twist. His creative genius flickered out and his sex drive zeroed. Old and fat and tired he lost his grip on the core identity that had made him who he was for nearly five decades. He knew the Hemingway who had been had disappeared; he could see that reality in the eyes of his wife, drinking friends, editor, and literary agent. And when on that last day he stared intently at the mirror, hating the haggard, grizzled image before him because all his mind’s eye could recall was his younger, more vital self, he headed straight for the shotgun. Of course he committed suicide. What other ending could Hemingway have written for himself?

Actually, I wish he would have conceived a totally different ending. Because now that I’m his age and either have disappeared in the eyes of the young lovelies or functionally am invisible, I can see a far better ending, even if Hemingway could not. Maybe my life is not as filled with romance or excitement as it was previously. For sure I’m not as slim or as quick on my feet as I once was. Running up and down a soccer field for ninety minutes, or even for fifteen minutes, is out of the question. But I have developed other talents. I love to write fiction and non-fiction. I taught myself how to paint using acrylics. I read voraciously. Playing with my grandchildren is a blast. My wife and I love to travel. A couple months ago, to my wife’s consternation and drop-jaw disbelief, I taught my three-year-old grandson by example how to “avalanche” headfirst down the stairs from the second to the first floor. Laughing uproariously is something I enjoy tremendously. And a lifetime of professional experience has made me a highly qualified urban and regional planner whose advice is sought by younger colleagues and clients.

Maybe my disappearance from the eyes of young people isn’t as important as I first thought. Growing old doesn’t have to mean losing substance and identify. Vitality and energy are as much states of mind as they are physical attributes. If you want to avoid disappearing, at least in your own eyes, start celebrating life to the fullest. Get involved with stimulating people of all ages. Don’t bury yourself in a “retirement” community that banishes children. Make lists of fun things to do and then DO THEM. Like touring the best National and State Parks in your region, especially in the off-seasons when they aren’t so crowded. Put art museums on that list. Exercise every day. Visit several of the great museums of the U.S., like the Smithsonian in Washington, DC, or the Field Museum in Chicago, or the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Or visit first-class zoos, like the ones in San Diego or St. Louis.

And while you’re in a visiting frame of mind, what about those old friends you’ve lost touch with. Become involved with an environmental organization seeking to save the Earth for our great grandchildren. Volunteer once or twice a week with a charity of your choice or in a church-sponsored nursery school. Take up old athletic activities that you haven’t done for decades, like table tennis and billiards. Find a new hobby with like-minded others that will take you outdoors, like bird-watching or rock collecting. If you’re not connected to the internet at home hightail it to the nearest library and find out what you’re missing. Buy tickets to Cirque du Soliet. Take a course or two at a local college. Teach literacy classes at an educational center. Try new foods. Be positive about yourself. Quit watching mind-numbing television. Stay active, physically and mentally.

Young people will never look at you the same way they did when you were one of them. So what. Get over it. Worse things in life can happen. Like Ernest Hemingway staring in the mirror and seeing nothing worth living for. And disappearing forever.