“It’s weird, but lately life seems to be speeding up.” This, disclosed over dinner at a lakeside holiday spot, came from the 13-year-old. We’d been talking in a desultory manner about age. Probably the subject arose when we realized that practically everyone else in the restaurant was over 55. There were four of us at the table: two teenagers, the four-and-a-half-year-old, and I. The rest of the family was driving separately, with a plan to meet up a few days later on Lake Ontario. And partly, I think, this explained the introspective conversation. There’s something about putting unexpected people together, or removing people who are normally there, that brings out odd topics. The boy elaborated. When he was younger, he said a year seemed to take forever. Now, the months surge past. He’s almost in high school. Plus: “Daddy is going gray. Girls I think of as ten-year-olds are teenagers and have boyfriends. My baby sister is almost five.” He shook his head in wry wonderment, and I could only agree. It is a strange business, aging, and it only gets stranger. “That’s so true,” cried the almost-16-year-old. “Everyone is suddenly getting older.” She went on, laughing, to give as an example Brad Pitt. “The first time I saw him, he was a guest star on “Friends,” and he was young and blond and tanned and the whole audience screamed when he came on,” she continued. “Now he has, like, a big shaggy gray beard and he looks like a caveman.” She grimaced. “He was on the cover of People with Angelina Jolie. She’s starting to look scary, too.” Sic transit gloria mundi, I thought, wincing inwardly. “Well, it’s tough for celebrities,” said I. “Everyone ages, but they do it with the world scrutinizing them.” At that moment our attention was drawn to a nearby table, where a very old, very frail man was getting to his feet in the slow, painful, unfurling manner of very old, very frail men. His wife, who must once have been a daringly young bride, rose more easily and took his arm. They smiled at each other and moved slowly out of the restaurant. “That’s nice to see,” I said. “That’s not,” murmured the girl, indicating with her head toward the slightly sunburned late-middle-aged couple at the table closest to us. They had reached the dessert stage, and sat with their bodies turned semiexpectantly toward one another. At first glance, they seemed to be yet another comfortable couple. Looking more closely — though, of course, surreptitiously — we could see that they were not meeting each other’s eyes, but were directing their attention at a point just over each other’s shoulders. “They haven’t spoken once,” my daughter whispered. “Appetizers, entrees, and not a single word to each other!” “Maybe they’re speechless with happiness.” “Or bored to tears.” “Or exhausted from a happy day of conversation.” “Or on the verge of divorce.” “Guys,” broke in the four-and-a-half-year-old. “Can we stop talking and have ice cream now?”
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
