By Jim Jones When I was in Special Forces, we had an acronym called PONR, pronounced “PO-NAR.” It stood for “Point of No Return.” In simple terms, there comes a point during a mission when you have gone too far, burned too much fuel, or committed too many resources to simply turn around and go back where you started. You have to keep going. Lately, I have been wondering if life has a Point of No Return. There is something about hitting 60 that changes the way you look at time. The hourglass seems to move faster, and somebody apparently keeps flipping the thing over when you aren’t looking. When you are young, time seems unlimited. At 20, wasting a year does not seem like a big deal because you have plenty more where that came from. At 30, you are still building things, careers, families, bank accounts, debt, and sometimes all four at once. Something happens during every decade. Some of it is physical, some is mental, and some of it is simply life changing around you. In our 20s, we know everything. The world is waiting, and we are pretty sure it has been waiting specifically for us. We have plenty of time, plenty of energy, and absolutely no appreciation for either one. We make decisions based on confidence instead of experience, stay out too late, spend money we don’t have, and recover from mistakes before breakfast. At that age, the future feels so far away that getting old seems like something that happens to other people. In the 30s, some people are starting a family, buying a home, having kids, and sadly, getting divorced. In some places, people in their late thirties are finally moving out of their parents’ house. In the mountains, some people in their late thirties are becoming grandparents. And these days, with divorce, housing prices, and bad decisions, some of them are moving right back in with their parents and grandparents. For me, my 30s was tough. Not only was I in the military, I went to night school for a bachelor’s degree, lost a child, got divorced (#1), took a reassignment, moved, got custody of my son, and finished a master’s degree while still on active duty. Somewhere in the middle of all that, around 35, my aunt passed away. She and my uncle had no children, and it turned out they had quietly named me medical power of attorney for him and executor of both their wills. Nobody told me any of this until she was gone. So, I inherited an uncle. I didn’t take it as a bad thing. I considered it an honor to be trusted that way. By Army standards, especially in Special Forces, I was becoming an old man. My medical records were bigger than my Bible, and I decided to focus on my son and let young guys do young guy things. I hit my 20 years of service and retired at 39. It was not easy. At that time, I was a single parent of one 14-year-old boy. My brother and I had to put our mom in a nursing home. Another move, a new job, and a new chapter. As I approached my last months in the Army, I noticed I wasn’t the only one getting old. The conversations around the team room were about work, war stories, comrades who didn’t make it, families, aches and pains, how to fill out disability paperwork, chicks, and the big question, “What’s next?” Then you hit 40. Somewhere around 40, you begin realizing you have burned a lot more fuel than you thought. This is traditionally called the midlife crisis. In my forties, I was averaging about three of them a year. People buy sports cars, motorcycles, boats, guitars, gym memberships, and other things designed to convince themselves that they are still young. Of course, I did them all. My son joined the Army, I started a new career, got remarried (#2), had a knee replacement (#1), and moved a few more times. Then came my 50s. The fifties are when you start noticing generational changes. You begin using phrases like “Back in my day,” “That’s not how we did it,” and “Kids today.” Once you hear yourself saying those things, congratulations, you have officially become one of the people you used to make fun of. As for me, I was doing well at work. I seemed to have hit my stride. I started making better decisions. At least I think I did. I could afford most of the things I wanted, and a new motorcycle. I also got another knee replacement (#2), divorced (#2), and remarried (#3). In your 50s, your body begins changing too. Some people age gracefully. AARP says you are a senior citizen at 50 (yes, you can pay for that privilege). At 55, most places offer a senior citizens discount. Others begin changing shape. Hair starts disappearing from the top of your head and mysteriously reappearing on your ears, shoulders, and back. Apparently, hair doesn’t die. It relocates. Extra skin starts showing up in places where you don’t remember ordering it. You discover that sleeping wrong can now cause an injury. Somewhere along the way, a good bowel movement becomes a noteworthy accomplishment. You probably won’t post it on Facebook, but you will consider calling somebody. Then you hit 60, and that one felt different to me. I began noticing that my “wedding and funeral suit” is being used considerably more for funerals. The conversations changed too. Now we talk about friends and family who didn’t make it, families, aches and pains, 401ks, Medicare, Social Security, chicks, and once again, “What’s next?” Apparently, chicks remain an important topic throughout the entire male life cycle. I sold a sports car, kept piling miles on the motorcycle, bought a new guitar, and got a neck replacement and prostate surgery. I moved back home (thanks to telework), retired, and decided to write these articles. Although I still don’t know what to call this work. Is it an article, blog, podcast, or just some guy yapping? Another strange thing happens in your sixties. Everybody becomes a medical expert. Get five people over 60 sitting around a table and within 20 minutes somebody will discuss a medical procedure in enough detail to ruin everybody’s lunch. I don’t have a medical degree, but I can now have a reasonably intelligent conversation about the numbers of one’s blood pressure, cholesterol, PSA, cataracts, knees, hips, medications, colonoscopies, and things that would have cleared the room when I was 30. Our doctors have us on more medication than our bathroom countertop can hold. Oh, and at 65, Medicare shows up. For most of us, Part A is free, Part B comes with a bill, and after a lifetime of carrying plastic insurance cards, Medicare hands you a piece of paper, like my 1976 driver’s license was. What they should do at this age is just send you a medical degree with it, because this group seems to know more about the medical system than most of the staff at a doctor’s office. Give someone in their 60s a prescription pad, and we are all set. By your 70s, you have pretty much earned the right to quit pretending you care what everybody thinks. You can wear whatever you want, eat dinner at 4:30, fall asleep in the recliner during the evening news, and call it “resting my eyes.” B***h about technology and why you can’t find anything on a TV with 600 stations. You also begin receiving senior discounts without being asked if you are a senior, which is society’s polite way of saying, “We know you’re getting close, so here’s 10 percent off.” By your 80s, I think all bets are off. If you make it that far, you should be allowed to say whatever you want. Nobody should correct you. Nobody should rush you. And if you want to tell the same story for the fifth time, everybody should sit there and listen because you have probably outlived half the people who could fact-check it anyway. Somewhere beyond 90, you aren’t old anymore. You are historical. At that point, people stop asking how old you are and start asking what black-and-white TV was like and, “Who was Elvis?” I have also discovered another mathematical principle of aging. I call it my 3X Rule. Right now, my multiplier is about three. It takes me roughly three times longer to accomplish the same physical task that I could do in my twenties. A project that once took an hour now requires three hours, six tools, two breaks, and at least three trips to Lowe’s. Getting underneath something isn’t the problem. Getting back up is. But there is another side to aging. I may be slower physically, but I think I am smarter about how I use my energy. At least I hope I am. I look for ways to save time, save effort, and save money. I have also become much better at recognizing people who are pushing rocks uphill for absolutely no reason. When I was younger, I might have helped them push. Now I tend to stand there, look at the hill, look at the rock, and ask, “Why the hell do you want that rock up there?” Maybe that is wisdom. Or maybe I am just tired. Either way, it works. Life expectancy is something I hate to think about, but looking back, I think that is why when we hit our 40s things start to feel heavy. It is the gravity of the downward side of the Bell Curve. The average American life expectancy is somewhere around the upper seventies, with women generally living longer than men. But averages can be misleading. I don’t know if this is factually true, but they say married men live longer, but I have noticed they’re more willing to die. If you have already made it to 65, statistically, you may still have many years remaining. That sounds encouraging until you think about how fast the last 20 years went. Twenty years ago doesn’t feel very long anymore. That is where aging begins changing your relationship with time. When you are 25, wasting an afternoon doesn’t seem like much. When you are 65, you understand that afternoon is part of a limited inventory. You don’t get it back. Maybe that is why older people sometimes seem impatient. Maybe we aren’t necessarily angrier. Maybe we are simply becoming less willing to waste what remains. We don’t want meet
