People who write about the changes in perspective that come with aging talk about the new “temporal horizon.”  I get what that means, but when I ask the question of myself as a newly “old person,” it takes the form of “How much longer can I keep doing this?”

And if that seems like a natural question to ask, I would have to say that it is a new question for me.  I have asked other questions, all of which seemed natural at the time.  For example, I have asked whether some public contribution is being made by my participation in this activity.  That may seem to be an odd question, but I put it first because otherwise, the first question would be “Am I enjoying this?” which does not seem to me to be a proper first question. It is a good later question.

I have also asked whether I am good enough at the skill the group requires to continue, in good conscience, to be a part of it.  If it is a discussion group or a class with a teacher, those are often harder questions to answer.  In music groups, on the other hand, it is easy to answer.  In my church choir, I am called on to sing the pitches that are called for.  The higher pitches are really not available to me anymore unless they allow the right volume (forte or better) and require the right vowel.  Getting to my seat on the third level of the rehearsal room (and back down) is getting more challenging.  It is not “challenging” enough for me to conclude that I can no longer do it, but it is challenging enough to make me wonder how much longer I will be able to do it. Enough about choir.

There are several elements involved here as I see it.  First, this is not a failure of ability.  Foreseeing a time when I will no longer be able to do something is not at the moment, a failure of ability.  After all, I can still do it.  It is more like an awareness; a part of my mental background on those occasions when it occurs.  As a “mental background,” it is something we do not have good words for.  It is more like a flavor or a scent or a barely audible hum.  It influences how I attribute things.  Young and able, I am surprised when I stumble over things.  Old and less able, I predict it, try to allow for it and take it for granted when it occurs.  Those reactions are effects of what I am calling “mental background.”

Or, let me take a stereotyped scene from fifty or so dramas.  Two women are sitting at a bar.  One takes for granted that she is attractive; the other takes for granted that she is unattractive.  They look identical, but they give off different “vibes.”  That puts it in the flavor or scent or hum category.  It is there and it is important, but you can’t see it.  Actually, you probably did see something, but you don’t know just what it was you saw.

The third thing is that it is about me.  There are things that meet the other two criteria (failure of ability, awareness) but that are about settings or other people or programs.  This is an awareness about me—about who I am now—that has considerable implications for what I notice, what I attempt, and how I file it in my “how did it go” file.

That makes it centrally important, however hard it might be to nail down specifically.  That is why it is important to call these essays “being” old, rather than “getting” old.  To me, “being old” is something I have noticed as if it were an objective condition.  I know it is not.  It is just a subjective condition I had never noticed before, and, having noticed it, I find myself struggling for terms to describe it.

As you see.