Struggling with turning 64

By Alan Linda | The Daily Journal

Published Tuesday, April 22, 2008

I was looking at an old psych textbook the other day, something more or less titled “The Psychology of Maladjustment,” which is a nice way to say: “Are You Crazy?”

Why would anyone dig around in such a book? It suddenly seemed logical to me to determine exactly where the boundary between geriatric mental decay (aging) and psychotic (crazy) behavior lies.

Paul McCartney wrote, at the age of 17: “When I grow older, losing my hair, many years from now.” His “many years from now,” which in the song was the ripe old age of 64, is here now for me, since my 64th birthday just came and went.

I guess mostly it went. I remembered it halfway through the day, thanks to relatives who are younger and reminded me. It suddenly occurred to me that the behavior of the aged, and the behavior of the crazy, are enough alike that it would behoove me to figure out which one is which. That way I’ll know which to blame.

It turns out that there are five basic symptoms to beware of. One of the first symptoms is the appearance of a narrator, or a voice, which prompts and coaxes and cajoles one throughout the day.

For example, a voice which I hear more and more these days is: Did you zip? This is a voice with overtones of social disapproval, mixed in with a dash of rebellion. Mostly I meet it with a sneer, saying in effect that of course I did, I’ve zipped every time now for 64 years, do you think I’m crazy?

When I was younger, no one hesitated to point out to me that my zipper was down. “Hey!” They might quickly point out—“Your zipper’s down!” And that would be that. You’re young. On the move, sometimes a bit alcoholically addled. Lot’s of irons in the fire. Your friends understand what it is to be upwardly mobile, and supremely concerned with 401Ks, and that next raise, or next career move.

So they’ll tell you.

That doesn’t happen now. Now a significant number of people are younger than you are, and let’s face it, they’re aware that they’ve got a ways to go to get to where you are, and if you really are there, then you should know enough to zip, without having to be reminded. If however you don’t know enough to zip, maybe you really aren’t there, even though your age says you should be, and they’re afraid. Afraid? Uh huh. They’re afraid that they’ll get there only to find out that there really isn’t any “there.”

Suddenly, you—and your voices—are on your own.

So you might be crazy and hearing some voices, but it’s a lot better for others, who don’t necessarily want to see some parts of you.

Some insanity therefore might be constructive, like a voice that says: Remember that time you set yourself on fire? Or, remember what happened when you tried to go an extra quarter mile on that low tire? Or, remember that time you almost cut your finger off with your jack knife trying to cut that garden hose?

Call me crazy. Go ahead.

Some people answer those voices. I tried to find something in the textbook about the link between answering and insanity, but evidently answering is alright. There’s absolutely nothing in there about that.

“Grossly disorganized behavior.” At first, this category was me. My morning begins two miles down the road with the disappointing realization that I’ve forgotten my lunch, followed immediately by becoming aware of the gas gauge, which is telling me that once again, I forgot to fill the tank, and therefore will be lucky to get to work at all, much less go back for my sandwich and tea.

At school, I cannot find the test for the follow up to the video presentation to the students on refrigeration. I printed it out last thing before I left, the day before, which doesn’t much matter, because now the video has also disappeared. I dig up some substitute material, but can only find the first half of that. Two minutes before class, really missing my thermos of tea, I head for the bathroom, but am interrupted by a couple of students who question me about something or other.

Two minutes late for class, I head for the classroom, enter, and suddenly remember that I needed to go to the bathroom, so I turn around, and go back.

In the bathroom, lying on the floor, is the test material and the video, right where I placed it the day before.

If you’re not crazy already, this is certainly enough to drive you there. I’m pretty depressed about all this, having just read about this “disorganized” category.

I leave the bathroom to see two students with the shop bolt cutter, removing a padlock. One of them turns to me and says, “I forgot my key.”

I finish zipping. I feel better.

Alan Linda writes from his New York Mills home.