61 as a number, not an age

Here’s the thing about turning 61: It’s an age that either defines you or you define it.

I’m trying my best to define it, so I consider it a number, not a state of mind.

It doesn’t matter that I’m a year from being able to collect Social Security. It doesn’t matter that I’m a year closer to being eligible for Medicare. It doesn’t matter that I’m inching so much closer to that “senior citizen” euphemism: 61 won’t define me in those terms.

Sure, there are days when I feel every year, every month, every week, every day, every hour, every minute, every second of being 61. My knees remind me. My back reminds me.

And there are reminders from my doctor about the tests and routine procedures normally associated with being a 60-plusser. Oh, and the fact that I CAN’T HEAR YOU very well anymore.

But those are the exceptions of who I am these days, not the rule because I’ve sworn to myself that as I get older, I won’t let the years age me.

I help myself by keeping myself engaged: Engaged in my freelance work, engaged with the people I love, engaged with the world around me.

I feel the need to be on the move - physically, mentally, emotionally.

Sit too long and the corrosives will into your joints, into your synapses. What did Neil Young sing? “It’s better to burn out than fade away...” Rust never sleeps.

Some of the engagement comes from the fact that I’m on the move between two homes - one in South Bend, Indiana, where my wife Jane works for the University of Notre Dame, and one in Durham, N.H., where I work as a freelancer for a couple of online and print news and information outlets.

I can work from pretty much anywhere because of my fully equipped “office in a bag”. I can set up anywhere and be immediately productive.

I’m given to looking more deeply into 61 than I did 60. Any age that ends in a 0 - 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100 - is a big deal because it’s an easily identifiable mile marker on the interstate of life.

61 is the beginning of the outlier years. Hardly anyone notices, and you just go about your business.

That’s why I’m making more of an effort to remain engaged in this life I live. Those outlier years will begin to pile up. You live it, or it lives you.

Back to the future: Shaving off ten years

Word is going around these parts about a way to lower your cholesterol, lower your blood pressure, increase circulation and make you feel 10 years younger.

The solution is: Stop watching the Red Sox play baseball.

'New' look

It’s been pretty bad, at least so far, for us citizens of Red Sox Nation.

But, in more practical terms, I’m addressing the cholesterol situation with Pravastatin and the blood pressure situation with Lisinopril.

And, in order to look 10 years younger, I shaved my moustache and beard.

The dual demons of age and vanity have been sitting on my shoulders as we turn the corner toward summer and as I prepare to marry off my daughter Elizabeth at the end of summer.

I celebrate my 59th birthday in June, and I’ll be into my 60th year when I walk Elizabeth down the aisle.

I just don’t want to look like I’m in my 60th year. As I told her, I want to be seen as a younger father of the bride, not an older father of the bride.

'Old' look

It’s not like I’ve had the facial ornamentation for very long.

It started in August 2008 right after my stepdaughter Kelsey married Jeremy.

I was newly retired from a long-time job, and I was looking for new opportunities as a consultant or freelance writer/editor. The beard made me look wise … or at least wiser than I actually am.

Kelsey and Jeremy now have a daughter -- Rylin Anne -- and the salt-’n-pepper moustache and the all-gray beard certainly gave me the look of a grandpa.

But as I creep closer to my daughter’s wedding, I’m thinking a change of scenery is necessary. And it’s all about me and my vanity, how I want to look and feel about myself.

It’s a funny thing about us Baby Boomers: We want the respect that should come with age, but we don’t really want the look of age.

So we boxtox, lipo and color our hair.

But I won’t botox my jowls. I won’t lipo my gut. I won’t color my gray.

I’ll try to eat right. I’ll sweat my butt off at the gym. And I’ll shave off as much of the offending gray as I can.

On Sept. 1, I’ll see if I can make 59 look like the new 39 … okay, okay … maybe 49.

The Golden Age of Geezer Groans

I find myself uttering more than the usual number of geezer groans these days.

If you’re an aging Baby Boomer, you know what I’m talking about.

These are the groans when you haul your ass out of bed in the morning, or when you stand up from lounging too long on the couch, or when you just can’t rake another damn pile of lawn clippings.

I hate geezer groans.

I hate that I’m groaning on a geezer level.

As an aging Baby Boomer, I’ve put a few miles on this body and soul.

I’m wiser for the experience and the many miles on the odometer, but I’m also a little worn in the joints, ligaments and muscles, knees, shoulders and hips.

I’ve had a cranky back for a long, long time. So doing any kind of lifting -- shovels of snow, piles of leaves or lawn clippings -- will produce a loud groan after a while. It might be as much a groan of protest as it is a groan of soreness.

Over the past year or so I resolved and succeeded at losing 20 pounds or more after climbing on the scale one day and not liking at all what the scale’s numbers were telling me.

It’s not that I want to roll back the odometer as much as I want to keep the odometer spinning for as long as possible.

I’ve succeeded through diet and exercise to lose the weight. The diet -- the “Flat Belly Diet! For Men” -- doesn’t make me groan. The exercise regimen does.

Here’s what this week’s gym schedule looks like so far:

Monday - 5 mile treadmill run, 48:44.97

Tuesday - TreadClimber, 1:00:00

Wednesday - Group stationary bike exercise class (Spinning, for the unitiated), 1:00:00

Thursday - Lap swim, 30:00

Friday - Xtrainer, 30:00

This followed by equal parts Ibuprofen/Jack Daniels.

The push to keep the excess pounds at bay has its residual effects -- occasional soreness and stiffness … and the groans.

And there are the groans of expectation and anxiety.

You know how it is. You’ve got to do something you don’t want to do. See someone you don’t want to see. Feel something you don’t want to feel.

So you groan.

It’s a way to prep, to steel yourself for the inevitable. The root canal I had this week comes to mind.

Geezer groans are part of the physical and emotional part of growing old.

But here’s the challenge: Don’t grow old.

Let’s age but let’s not get old.

My perceived age versus my birthday age

My daughter Elizabeth celebrated her 26th birthday about a week ago. My son David will turn 23 in a few weeks.

And I ask myself: "How can I be old enough to have children that old?"

The age that I perceive to be and the age that I actually am don't match up. My perceived age is a lot younger than the date of birth listed on my driver's license.

It's a Baby Boomer thing. I don't think perceived age is exclusive to Baby Boomers. My mother has said on occasion that she doesn't see herself as old as her chronological years said she is. But Baby Boomers are making more noise about it because we're the generation that vowed to a) never get old or, failing that b) die before we get old.

Most of us prefer a) over b).

Del Webb, builder of 55 and older communities in several states, did a poll recently to measure Baby Boomers' outlook on life. It found that older Boomers feel an average of 13 years younger than their age.

"Baby Boomers have a much different mindset toward growing older than earlier generations," Deborah Blake, Del Webb creative director, said in a statement. "Feeling older is just a state of mind for many of them -- one that most have no interest in."

It's why we believe that 50 is the new 40, that 60 is the new 45.

Part of the perception is driven by a connection to an idealism borne of the 1960s and '70s that our relevance as a generation still counts. So we've remained engaged in communities, politics and parenting. To a certain extent, we still think we're smarter than everyone else.

I can still see a kid in the mirror getting ready for a day at Oswego Catholic High School. I still see a sophomore in Randall Hall at the University of New Hampshire. I still see a young reporter brushing his teeth at night after a long slog in the newsroom at the Peabody Times.

Sure, it's a little harder to see past the wrinkles under the eyes, the gray in what's left of the hair, and the double chin that's trying to go triple. But I see it in the eyes that still have the outlook of 1968, 1973 and 1980.

I'll put another candle on the birthday cake soon enough to celebrate 57. But don’t wish me a happy 57th birthday. I won't believe you: 44 is the new 57.