Aging

When Michael and I were out to dinner the other night, our waiter was this strapping young guy named Andrew. He was "taking time off" from college to, you know, figure stuff out. All that deep reflection was taking place while he hiked and kayaked his way around the Olympic Peninsula. By day, he was a figure-outer, and by night, he earned a little money to buy some great fleece outerwear.

When Andrew was safely out of ear shot, I leaned over to Michael and asked, "Do you remember that time in college when we stayed up all night to watch the sunrise?" Michael looked at me romantically and said, "Of course I do." "Well, guess what?" I said. "Andrew wasn't even born then."

That put a bit of a damper onto Michael's enjoyment of his seafood caesar salad. Getting older can be a beast. One day, you're at a party, talking about all the latest bands and the best clubs, and the next? You're at a potluck, sharing insights about the best kind of sod for your backyard with some guy in too-tight Dockers.

Some of the problems related to getting older are conceptual. You still feel like you should get carded at the grocery store, but then the 16-year-old checker says that you remind him of his mom. One time recently, I was driving our teenage babysitter home, and I asked her about her SAT's. She mumbled something about getting ready for them, and I launched into my own SAT tale, as if my important life experience in 1987 would be relevant to her. As I went on, blah, blah, blah, I could sense her eyes rolling. She was probably thinking to herself, "Did they even have No. 2 pencils back then?"

Of course, the rest of the problems related to getting older are literal. And physical. After a couple of kids, a couple of plates of nachos, and a couple of nights on the couch watching Weeds, suddenly things you expected to be high up are now down low. Ladies, you know what I mean. A doctor recently mentioned that I have a "half-moon shaped navel." Huh? I went home and checked out my stomach. Sure enough, the belly button that was once as perfectly round as...well...a button now looked like a frown. It's not fat, exactly. It's just sinking.

I've belonged to a gym for a while now. I love this gym, because most of its members are schlumpy. People wear their big old sweats, no makeup, and some even bring their oxygen tanks. I learned a few years ago that the payoff for going to the gym is that I get to read a lot of trashy magazines. 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer, and I get to find out if Britney really is a bad mom. Usually, gyms are places where people try to reclaim lost youth, but my gym seems to be filled with people just trying to get through the day. Need a break from your kids? Take them to the child care place, and sit with your head down in the locker room for a few minutes. Need to get away from the humdrum of your assisted living facility? Walk on the treadmill while watching Murder She Wrote reruns on the attached TV.

This summer, I've taken up a new exercise hobby: spinning. I'm strangely addicted to this activity, because it makes me feel like a brute (of course, it also makes me want to go home and eat a tub of ice cream, which sort of defeats the purpose. Oh well). But, see, my gym is a cheap gym. Just $15 a month. So unlike fancy pants-y, expensive gyms, there's no big screen that entertains you with scenery as you ride your stationary bike at high speeds. Instead, you have to use your imagination while the instructor screams out, "Now we're going up Ravenna Boulevard! It's a big hill! Do you feel it?" Once we get to the top of the fake hill, she yells, "Are you effervescing yet? You should be effervescing by now." I think she's talking about sweating, which I usually do very effectively. And I wonder, if I effervesce a lot, will my belly button return to form?

Regardless of what happens to my stomach, my goal is to age gracefully. One of our friends, Shawn, is a master at aging well. His trick seems to be to reinvent himself. Sometimes, he's a professor. Sometimes, he's a famous novelist. Sometimes, he's a screenwriter. What's neat is that he does all this while masquerading at being a normal guy. If you saw him on the street, you might think he's just a regular dad with a gas grill and a van. He might seem to be a tired working fellow who falls asleep at 9:00 pm in front of the golf update on ESPN. But, no, look again. Doesn't he look kind of familiar? Yes! He does! You've seen him somewhere before...Was it on your Wells Fargo banking brochure? Yes! Yes! That's because Shawn, our scholarly famous friend, has chosen yet another career direction, this one designed to make him feel sexy and youthful no matter what the calendar says. He is...A MALE MODEL!!!

Now, I tried to get the actual photos to post here. But it seems like Getty Images is not so keen on parting with its stock footage just to entertain the masses. If you're interested, do a search for "Asian Real Estate" or "Mature Couple." These keywords bring up my favorites, especially the one where he is hauling what seems to be a very heavy carpet on his back. Who says that academics can't be macho, too?

(Shawn, I just checked the official America's Next Top Model website. There's a casting call for season 10 in our very own city on August 14. To be eligible, you have to be under 28 years old. That's how old you're turning this year, right? Lie a little. Tyra will never know. Happy birthday on Saturday, and many more).