The holidays are often a time to reflect on the past and to take stock of one’s life.  I was reflecting recently…in a shopping mall.  I entered a store and I was greeted by a young man who said, “Good afternoon, Sir!”  After I had completed my shopping, I brought my goods to the register and handed my credit card to the same young man.  After completing the transaction, he said, “Thank you for shopping with us, Mr. McClellan!”  I didn’t like it.  I remember a time when “Sir” and “Mr. McClellan” was my father, not me.  In this time of reflection, I was reflecting on the fact that I am getting older.  Maybe I am not old just yet, but I can see “old” from here. 

I woke up one morning recently and saw my reflection in the mirror.  Do you know what I saw?  I saw the early warning signs of a man getting older.  I took a good long look at my reflection and saw the earliest signs of a receding hairline.  Ever so slightly, the corners of my hairline had begun their steady march toward the back of my head.  Upon further inspection, I saw a body that was showing its age as well.  I was once built like a big jungle cat, built for speed, power, agility.  The cat I most resemble today is a tabby cat, fat and happy, domesticated.  After taking an even closer look, I was reacquainted with that lone stubborn grey hair in my beard.  He’s like a cockroach. Every time, I think I have gotten rid of him, there’s one more right behind him.  I thought to myself, “I may not be old just yet, but I can see 'old' from here.”

Later that day, I was driving around town and as I was stopped at a traffic light, I noticed that the car beside me was being driven by a 9 year-old.  Well, maybe the driver was not actually nine, but he seemed way too young to have a driver’s license.  There was this booming sound coming out of his car stereo system.  I was troubled by this, not because the music was loud, but because it was a song that I didn't recognize.   I pride myself on knowing all the latest jams.  I happened to catch a couple words, so later I looked the song up on the internet.  I listened to the song and even read the lyrics, but still had no idea what the song was trying to say!

I started to think back to the music that was popular when I was his age.  Michael Jackson. Billie Jean.  I know I'm dating myself because I remember when Michael Jackson was popular for singing and dancing rather than his “eccentricities.”  Isn’t funny how we call rich people “eccentric” but people without money “just plain crazy.”  But, I digress.  I was recalling the lyrics of Billie Jean.

Billie Jean is not my lover / She’s just a girl / Who claims that I am the one/ But the kid is not my son

Every word is perfectly understandable.  No double meanings or code to decipher.  I realized that, if I was not careful, I was in danger of crossing to the “old” side of the Great Communication Divide.  I remember when that internet first became popular. Here I am dating myself again!  I remember writing long, well-structured e-mails to my friends, e-mails that I meant to be witty and insightful, e-mails hundreds of words in length.  I would close my e-mails with a phrase like this one.  “It has been great hearing from you again.  I look forward to seeing you again soon.  Peace, B.”  Today’s young adults accomplish the same thing regularly by reducing these eighteen words to one, “L8R.”  I remember when my parents thought that my means of communication was “funny,” funny meaning strange, not “ha-ha” funny.  I thought to myself, “I may not be old just yet, but I can see 'old' from here.”

That Sunday, I caught some of the National Football League action on TV.  A great thing about watching sports is, if you are paying attention, you can arrive to watch the games, but leave with a life lesson.  This particular Sunday in the NFL, every game began with a moment of silence.  Why?  Because a twenty-four year old NFL player had been shot and killed in his own home with his infant daughter by his side.  At that moment, it seemed silly that I had been lamenting the passage of time, complaining about getting old.  At that moment, I was reminded that getting old is a gift.  Not everyone gets to get old.

I concluded that I want to get old.  I want to be around to see my hairline complete its retreat to the back of my head.  If getting old means getting heavy, I want to be as big as a panda bear, sitting on my haunches eating bamboo all day long.  I want to be around when the stubborn grey hair in my beard has a family of his own, a wife and children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. 

I want to get old because getting old means having the opportunity to spend more time doing what you love.  It means having the opportunity to spend more time with the people you love.  It means having the opportunity to see what this great world of ours will come up with next.  Our grandparents could not have imagined mail without stamps when they were our age.  Maybe someday, I will not have to write to my friends e-mails.  Maybe I will beam myself to them as they do on Star Trek and have those witty, insightful conversations in person.  Getting old means still having an opportunity to do great things, still being in the game.  The fact that this fallen football player will never again be in the game makes me realize how lucky I am to have at least one more play in me.

This is the thought I keep close to my heart whenever I am tempted to curse the passage of time. I may not be old just yet, but I can see "old" from here and I like the view.  At least, I will like the view after I get my eyes checked!