Schprock at 50: A Quick Status Report

I just read an article in The Boston Globe about how men these days are less inclined to color their hair when it starts going grey. It seems that if the guy keeps himself fit, then that’s all that’s needed to give him the feeling of retaining his youth. Some men prefer to manage their greyness, achieving just the right mix of grey with their original natural hair color. And there are plenty of women who report that they go for the salt-and-pepper look. Apparently they think it’s “sexy.”

Well, you can survey the Schprock scalp all you want and not find a single grey hair. Nary a one. Why this is, I can’t explain, except that it took my father a long time to go grey, so I probably inherited this trait from him. A friend of mine has accused me several times of dyeing my hair. He claims every time he sees me, my hair seems to get darker and darker. But the truth is, the only thing I do to my hair is wash it.

So as I take careful inventory of myself on this, the 50th anniversary of my birth, I can report a healthy follicular fastness of color. No figment, just real pigment. It’s the true hue.

I’m skinny, like I’ve always been. My waist has gone from the 32 inches it was in my twenties to a still-svelte 34. I weigh approximately 195 pounds, 10 to 15 more than I did in my twenties, but all those are pounds I’ve needed anyway. I have love handles, which on a skinny guy won’t attract many appreciative stares on the beach, but my body still does everything I ask of it. I can ride a bike really far, I can still do my push-ups and sit-ups (every weekday morning), and I won’t embarrass myself too badly in a pick-up game of touch football or softball. I can walk forever. I can rake leaves and shovel snow for hours and hours on end. After my knee injury heals (which will be soon), I’ll start jogging again.

My face is definitely the face of a 50-year-old. Riding your bike through the winter is no rejuvenator of the skin, I can tell you that. I suppose I could use skin moisturizers if I wanted to, but, nah, let the wrinkles take their course I say. Inside, however, I feel young. I feel like I’m only 21. And I take much better care of myself now than I did at that age. I exercise more than I used to, I eat better, and I approach life with a lot more calmness and assurance.

I think I still have a good curiosity of mind. I am perhaps more open to new ideas than I was when I was younger. I no longer have a great urge to impress people, a silly habit I was in during my younger days. I always wanted people to see how intelligent or talented I was in a wasted attempt to validate myself. Now I’m a lot more comfortable in my own skin. Going further, I find I can handle being misunderstood much better than I used to. I’ve got certain life skills I previously lacked; I can better deal with “the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.” All this is to the good.

Financially, I’m on a pretty good footing. Losing my job would sure take the starch out of my sails, but the missus and I do okay. We’ve invested in real estate and so far things seem to be working out. We’ve got two great kids, one already an adult and the other well on her way. They become more and more interesting with each passing day and I often get a kick out of talking to them, frequently speaking to my daughters as peers. My extended family is doing well; I get together with my father, a sister and my brother to play cards once a month. Both parents are still alive, everyone is in good health. No complaints.

As I’ve gotten older, I think I’ve acquired more of a taste for the simple pleasures, something I was oftentimes impervious to in youth. An evening playing cards with family or friends constitutes a wonderful time. Stolen hours reading a book is nothing short of sublime. I enjoy the fundamental act of riding a bicycle, of feeling myself pass swiftly through space, smelling smells and seeing sights missed while driving an automobile. These days, I’m into body awareness; frequently I stop to investigate what I’m sensing right at that precise moment: the strain. say, of pedaling up a hill, or the feel of wind on my face; the intricate bodily actions that go into walking, the sensations of warmth and chill, or simply following the cool, sharp intake of a breath and the warm, soft exhalation of it. I think I am more appreciative of life, of its nature and its mystery. Sometimes I stop, look around and wonder: How did I get here? Is that guy in the mirror really me? Do all these things appertain to me? Sometimes I stop and think: Boy, what a lucky bastard I am!

So I mean this with all my heart: it’s great to be 50!