The Flamingo Years: How to Lose Gracefully to a Ten-Year-Old

My ten-year-old grandson and I have developed what I like to think of as a moderately foolish competition: we put on our socks and shoes while balancing on one leg like a pair of demented flamingos. It makes us laugh, which is really the point, and so far I can hold my own, even with my eyes closed, which I mention not to boast but because it seems like the sort of detail that might become relevant later when I’m lying in a heap on the bedroom floor. The thing is, I’ve begun to notice it’s getting harder, which is the body’s way of sending you a memo that says, in effect, “Just so you know, we’re not doing this forever.”

I’m in solid shape for fifty-eight, by which I mean I can complete a 5K road race without any training (though “complete” may be overstating things), hop on my bike for a ten-mile ride, and I genuinely love playing tennis and badminton, both of which demand fitness, flexibility, and the kind of reaction times that allow you to avoid being hit in the face by a shuttlecock traveling at speeds that would alarm a highway patrol officer. My playing time normally hits two hours of continuous action three times a week, though I’m playing fewer singles matches these days. This is partly because it’s harder to compete against players in their thirties and forties, they have this annoying habit of being able to move, and partly because walking down the stairs the morning after a tough singles game has become an undertaking roughly equivalent to a Himalayan descent.

Although I’m fit and healthy, my graying hair is finally getting through to me. I’m aging. In theory, I’ve always been aware of this inevitability in the same way I’m aware that Antarctica exists, but I see no reason not to push back and extend what the people who know about these things call my “healthspan” for as long as I can. While we all want a long life, I’d genuinely prefer a shorter one if the majority of it was healthy and vertical. It’s the difference between living to ninety-five in a nursing home watching daytime television versus eighty-five while still playing badminton the week before I shuffle off, which strikes me as a considerably better deal all around.

Education is going to be key in the campaign to extend my healthspan, which is a polite way of saying I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing. I’ve already talked to my doctor about my declining sporting abilities. His initial response was to laugh, not a small chuckle but a proper, hearty laugh—and explain that I was probably in the ninetieth percentile fitness-wise for my age group. After he wiped his eyes, he gave me some pointers and sent me on my way. I suppose he’s got patients who are actually unwell to treat, people with real problems rather than middle-aged men complaining they can’t quite reach the tennis ball like they used to.

The next phase brings me face to face with something I really don’t enjoy: gyms. Apparently, I need to start resistance training and explosive power workouts to complement my current physical activities, which sounds about as appealing as voluntary root canal work. He explained that while my cardiovascular fitness is excellent, the fast-twitch muscle fibers and bone density that give me that explosive first step to the net decline faster with age and won’t improve from endurance alone. My whole adult life I’ve generally avoided public gyms. I simply don’t like them. They’re full of mirrors and grunting and people who seem to know what they’re doing, which makes the rest of us feel like frauds. Fortunately, I’m in the privileged position of having space and resources for a private gym at home, which means I can grunt in peace.

I’m a frugal person, some might say tight, though I prefer “careful with money”, and although I spend freely on others, I think twice before spending on myself and then rethink the whole thing over again. On this occasion, I’m going to spend freely on myself. It’s an investment for my future self, not dissimilar to saving for retirement, except instead of hoping I’ll have enough money to live on, I’m hoping I’ll be able to put my own socks on. I believe it will be five thousand dollars or so well spent and will likely pay for itself with reduced future healthcare costs, though this is the sort of optimistic financial reasoning that usually precedes buying a boat. At the very least, it’s better than a two-thousand-dollar yearly gym membership that I probably won’t use.

It’s going to be an interesting few months. I really don’t have much idea what equipment is required, which is a bit like saying I don’t have much idea how to perform open-heart surgery. I’m looking forward to researching and visiting equipment showrooms over the fall and hopefully will have my gym ready this side of Christmas or early next year. You just never know, maybe next summer I’ll be back on the singles court wiping the floor with a thirty-something whippersnapper, though “not embarrassing myself completely” might be more realistic.

But in the final analysis, my true goal is not to win on the sports field but to extend my years of vitality and health to the best of my ability. A long life is a wonderful gift, but without good health it’s a bit like winning a luxury car and discovering you’re not allowed to drive it. Embarrassing my grandkids by doing an energetic rendition of the funky chicken at their weddings is surely a goal worth striving for and seems a considerably better option than watching from the sidelines in a wheelchair, wondering where all the time went.