When someone gets to a certain age it appears some people think they are too old to do a great many things.  Turning 50 had confirmed and denied part of this for me as well.  What does it mean to turn 50 years old?  Well, there is a stereotype that goes with it.  Many consider you “done” at this point.  “Well, he’s going to go through his mid-life crisis.”, “He’s too old to play a sport.”, or “He probably can’t hear you too well, you’ll have to shout.”.  This last one is kind of true, but only because I can’t get my ears cleaned out well enough anymore…but that’s another story for…well…never.

 

Does 50 mean I’m old?  Well…sort of.  I prefer to think of it as experienced though.  I’ve been around the block a few million times and I could teach someone things if they wanted to listen but therein lies the problem.  The attention span of people, not just children, has diminished greatly in the last two decades.  It has gotten much worse since COVID-19 nearly decapitated the human condition a few years ago.  Perhaps it is that I’m too old.  I remember when I was a child and talking back to my parents meant I was going to get disciplined in some way, shape, or form.  I recall having conversations with my friends, teachers, family, and even lite acquaintances in passing which involved face to face interaction with light eye contact.  Try holding a conversation with anyone these days.  People don’t look you in the eye anymore and can barely think of enough to say that I find interesting long enough to pay attention.  Of course, the fact someone cannot look me in the eye when they speak to me already makes me leery of anything they are saying as it is.

 

In speaking with one of my colleagues the other day and it was brought up that I teach children.  One of the things I teach them is confidence and how to be in control of themselves and be weary of their surroundings.  It came to pass in our conversation a mention of my first job.  When I was twelve years old I started a paper route.  Being the youngest boy of five there was no “help” with this.  My parents didn’t get me up early on weekends, they didn’t drive me on my route when it rained, snowed, or was too cold for the busses to run.  I delivered papers everyday after school and at 06:00hrs. on the weekends.  My route was about a mile from my home, and I had about 100 customers.  The worst day was Sunday because those papers were so thick, but the money overall was great for a young person. 

 

I managed my “business” by picking up my inventory, paying for it, delivered the stock, collected and managed the money, and maintained my “vehicle” (20” no name brand BMX bike I built from spare parts).  I see very few kids today who could handle such a simple task as a paper route on their own much less a child of that age who is even allowed to be out late enough at night collecting money or even early in the morning like that.  Not to mention the commitment it took.  The NEWS didn’t have a day off and neither did I.  The other Newsies and I delivered papers 365.  We did sub when others took a vacation but rarely were we “sick”.  Even if we got a cold, or something, we still had to do our job.

 

I recall one winter I was about a mile from home.  There was a minimum 6 inches of snow on the ground, so I had to walk my bike through the route because it was impossible to pedal.  It was early Sunday morning, and the temperature was around 20 degrees Fahrenheit.  I had great boots, but my gloves and jacket were crap, and I was freezing…literally.  It got so bad that I huddled up inside a store entryway off the main road.  The opening was about four feet wide but only about three feet deep, so it didn’t help with the constant gusting winds.  Snow piled up at my feet and blew across my face.  My hands were getting colder and colder each second.  I huddled there shivering and attempting to warm myself up for about 15 minutes until I realized that wasn’t going to happen.  So, I picked up my bike, walked it home, added additional layers of clothing, work gloves under my winter gloves, a new winter hat that wasn’t soaked, and an extra sweatshirt over my hoodie under my jacket and I headed back out to finish the job.

 

When I turned 50 it meant having a colonoscopy.  That was fun.  Thank God for anesthesia.  Turning 50 meant getting spammed by AARP.  Turning 50 also meant filling out advanced directives, HIPAA Authorization, and my Last Will & Testament as well as making sure all of my assets were defined with beneficiaries.  Turning 50 showed me that I only had a few years left on this planet but I’m not too old at this point to make sure I enjoy them.  I work out still just not as much as I used to.  I try to walk/jog a 5k at least three times a week…more if I have the time.  I teach karate twice a week, cut my lawn, clean the house, wash my clothes, work out in the backyard, and attend Church and try to help there too.  I try to remain as active as possible.  

 

I have two sets of exercises that I perform at my school.  One I simply call “50, 40, 30, 20, 10” and the other I call “The 10’s”.  I think it is important to do these exercises as often as one can.  I want to get it to where I’m doing them at least once each on interval weeks and then work to doing them twice a week each and so on.  The first one, “50, 40, 30, 20, 10” is simply 50 jumping jacks, 40 side squats (20 on each leg), 30 squatting jumping jacks, 20 burpees, and 10 ninja jumps (where you jump as high as you can lifting your knees up to your chest and punching straight down between your legs).  The one I call “The 10’s” is a little more involved but simple enough.  You do a lap around our gym between each exercise.  Obviously, there are 10 exercises, so you will do 10 laps.  After each lap you will do 10 each of sit-ups, push-ups, squats, leg lifts, burpees, ninja jumps, front straight leg stretch kicks on each leg, leg bounces, squatting jumping jacks, and lastly, 10 Spiderman pushups.  These exercises help keep me in check with the kids I teach.  Some of them can’t make it through these and none of them have ever done every exercise to the fullest and made it all the way through, but the first one that does will be so much stronger for it.  I know I feel well about doing these.  I just don’t want to end up not being able to navigate a stairwell in 15~20 years.

 

I titled this article “A Long Time Coming!” because turning 50 means it took me that long to get to the point where I do realize that life is closing out, but it sure as heck isn’t over.  It appeared as if it took a long time to get to that age, but not soon after time began to speed up.  I’m not sure how that happens but everyone over the age of 50 will tell you they have less and less time to do anything.  I didn’t write this article to discourage anyone about becoming 50, but hopefully to encourage you to take to heart that 50 isn’t old.  50 is a second chance to change things that need changing (health, relationships, hobbies, or whatever sparks your fire). 

 

So go out there and be 50 if you already are.  If you aren’t look forward to becoming 50.  Either way, give up your knowledge.  Find someone who wants to hear it or better yet, someone who needs to hear it.  The fact that you have achieved this wonderful age means you have something to share.  Most people today don’t even know they want to hear a good story or something about how to fix a leaky faucet.  The knowledge we have is unmistakable and different than what anyone today will experience just the same as it was for the last generation who got to see Woodstock live or fight in WWII. 

 

Your experiences may do someone some good.  It doesn’t matter if it is a story of when you used to Breakdance and got into a 50 person all out braul in a hall where chairs were thrown through the air, or the time when you and your friends jumped onto a moving trains and rode them too long and the speeds they got up to were nearly impossible to jump off, or how you played Nintendo for hours to the same Metallica albums over and over, or the time you picked up a hitchhiker and he robbed you, or even the time when you were on 8 Mile, saw the most beautiful car (1967 Camaro in mint condition) for sale, asked a nearby hooker if she knew where the owner stayed and she told you “Yes” but you had to drive her to the shadiest part of Detroit to a crack house where you were the only (mostly) white person for miles around but you walked in to speak to the “owner” who didn’t actually live there and saw only guns, crack, and heroine needles on the small round wooden table in the kitchen where four extremely large gentlemen were playing cards.  Any of your experiences could help someone else if they are willing to listen. 

 

Hopefully, you have a great ride up and down this hilly road.  I know I have.