In 2000, I published a book called “Rules for Aging,” a sort of how-to guide for navigating the later years of one’s life. I was 60 at the time and thought that I knew a thing or two about being old. Twenty-five years later, I just finished a sequel, which reflects my advice for growing very, very old. (I have been doing a lot of that lately.) It took me 85 years to learn these things, but I believe they’re applicable at any age.
1. Nobody’s thinking about you.
It was true 25 years ago, and it’s true today. Nobody is thinking about you. Nobody ever will. Not your teacher, not your minister, not your colleagues, not your shrink, not a soul. It can be a bummer of a thought. But it’s also liberating. That time you fell on your butt in public? That dumb comment you made at dinner last week? That brilliant book you wrote? No one is thinking about it. Others are thinking about themselves. Just like you.
2. Make young friends.
For older folks, there is nothing more energizing than the company of the young. They’re bright, enthusiastic, informative and brimming with life, and they do not know when you’re telling them lies.
3. Try to see fewer than five doctors.
I wish I could follow this rule myself, but once I grew old, my relationship with the practice of medicine changed significantly. I now have more doctors than I ever thought possible — each one specializing in an area of my body that I had been unaware existed. They compete with one another for attention. This week’s contest is between my kidneys and my spleen.
My father and my daughter were both doctors. Currently there are seven doctors in the family, with one grandchild in medical school. It’s not the doctors I dislike; rather, it’s the debilitating feeling of moving from one to another to another like an automobile on an assembly line. If the end product were a Lamborghini, I’d be fine. But I’m a Studebaker.
I know all these doctor visits are prudent and inevitable. But when one’s social life consists of Marie, who takes my blood, and an M.R.I. technician named Lou, it’s hardly a good sign.
4. Get a dog.
Just do it. Dogs are rarely trouble. They take more naps than you do, and they listen to you intently. That’s because they think you might have food, to satisfy their bottomless appetites. Care not about their motives. No creature on Earth will ever find you more fascinating than your dog does. I’m excluding yourself, of course.
5. Don’t hear the cheers.
This applies at any age, really, but perhaps a little more to people in later life, who are given lifetime achievement awards and other statements of how wonderful they are. Pay no attention to those accolades. Just proceed to live the life you’re living, giving it whatever it requires.
Bill Russell, the great Boston Celtics center who was responsible for many of the Celtics’ N.B.A. championships, used to be booed every night by the racist Boston crowd. The league’s greatest player, booed. One day, his little girl said to him, “Daddy, how can you stand all that booing?” He replied, “I don’t hear the boos because I don’t hear the cheers.”
One makes a great mistake believing the grand things said about him or her, even if those things are true. Especially if they’re true. The important thing, at any age, is to do the work. The work is far more satisfying than a truckload of compliments. It also takes the place of self-love, always a good thing. (But don’t worry. You’re still fabulous.)
6. Everyone’s in pain.
If you didn’t know that before, you know it now. People you meet casually, those you’ve known all your life, the ones you’ll never see — everyone’s in pain. If you need an excuse for being kind, start with that.
7. Listen for Bob Marley.
You have more free time to observe and appreciate the world these days, so do it.
I walk our Labradoodle, Molly, at around 4 in the morning. It’s just a habit I’ve gotten into, and the hour works well for my writing schedule. Miguel, a doorman in my apartment building, works the night shift. Dressed in his grand quasi-military uniform, he greets Molly and me, holds open the large, heavy door of the building, then stands outside in the open doorway as I walk Molly to a nearby patch of grass. I’ve never felt any danger at that hour because Miguel — who stands 6-foot-5 — watches where we go, in any weather, and waits for our safe return.
One morning, coming out of the elevator, I heard an exquisitely beautiful baritone voice singing “One Love” by Bob Marley. Not Marley’s voice but something its own. I thought the voice must be a recording, but there was no instrumental accompaniment. When I saw Miguel, I asked him, “Did you hear that singing?” He blushed and turned his big face to the side. “That was me,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.” I told him, “Don’t be sorry. You have a wonderful voice.”
There’s nothing more to the story. Miguel and I have not mentioned his singing again. But it was there, you see. The secret being inside the doorman. The other self, who sang like an angel. I hear it every time Miguel holds open the door and watches protectively. And the big man is bigger still.
8. Join a gang.
This advice is meant for men more than women, because women are always part of one group or another. The value of socializing comes to women naturally, which is why the world would be better if women ran it. They know how to get along in groups. Men, on the other hand, are solitary, static things. Generals without wars, astride iron horses. They don’t band together naturally, but they ought to, especially when too much solitude leads to self-conscious gloom. Join a gang — that’s what I say. I do not mean a motorcycle gang, simply a group of guys who share an interest. Joining a gang also serves society at large. It keeps us off the streets.
My own gang is the Meatheads, named for our collective tasteless interest in terrible movies. There are seven or eight of us, artists mostly, and we’ve been together some 40 years. Grown men in name only, we sit in the front rows of the theater, throw popcorn and Junior Mints at one another (the mints can sting) and make noisy comments during the show, which doesn’t endear us to the other patrons — though during one clunker, a woman told me she’d rather hear us than the actors.
9. On regrets.
They’re part of life. Learn to live with them.
10. Start and end every day by listening to Louis Armstrong.
“West End Blues” or anything, really. I won’t tell you why. But you’ll thank me.
Roger Rosenblatt is an author of novels, memoirs and meditations, including “Making Toast” and “Cold Moon.”
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