In my contrarian youth, I considered writing a book called “Lies” since everywhere I looked, from the Easter Bunny to the war in Vietnam, people seemed to be telling whoppers. I never wrote it because a) considering writing a book is a lot easier than actually doing it, and b) it occurred to me that most of the lies were so blatant that people must just like being lied to.
Nothing has occurred to change that conclusion, though I recently gathered a useful quotation on the subject. “People almost invariably arrive at their beliefs not on the basis of proof but on the basis of what they find attractive.” Blaise Pascal. This obviously accounts for the careers of, say, Bernie Madoff, Bill O’Reilly, and most politicians.
Now that I am no longer young, whole new vistas of blatant mendacity have come into view. What we might call geriatric jive. It’s everywhere and often the most shameless purveyors are people who ought to know better. Doctors, lawyers, stock brokers and the AARP, for example. Yet they keep repeating with a straight face the shameless happy talk, especially the master lie claiming that these are my golden years. Pot metal is more like it.
The last time I was so constantly told that I was experiencing the best years of my life I was an adolescent, and that was quite obviously hell. And old age is demonstrably worse. As an adolescent at least I wasn’t falling slowly to pieces and getting unsolicited mail offering me fine deals on cemetery plots or cut-rate cremation.
Especially annoying are the chirpy, prevaricating ads of the pharmaceutical industry. Happy people who are supposed to be suffering the repulsive or humiliating maladies of old age – arthritis, Alzheimer’s, erectile dysfunction, atrial fibrillation, irritable bowels and incontinent bladders – are played by fit as a fiddle actors in their 30s or 40s with a phony touch of gray from the makeup department.
They smile and cuddle, explore wildernesses, stroll on deserted beaches and swing from trapezes thanks to whatever miracle drug is being hawked. As they frolic through a Club Med for Codgers, the fast-talking voiceover notes that the remedy for dry eyes or itchy skin might just have a few negligible side effects – like cancer, unexpected bleeding, seizures, leprosy, schizophrenia or hemophilia.
Another pet peeve is the constantly repeated claim that as we get older we need less sleep. Speak for yourself. I have many more pet peeves than I used to. Guess why? Because I spend a lot more time awake than I used to. And not voluntarily. I get less sleep alright, but that doesn’t mean I need less sleep. Rather I’m the victim of an anatomical Catch-22. My body wants more sleep, but my body won’t let me get it.
Several times a night I’m required to visit the restroom, and not to rest. But I’m already awake because I can’t get comfortable. It isn’t the fault of the pillow or the mattress or the temperature or a bedroom that’s too light. It is the fault of my joints – knees, hips, shoulders, neck, spine. It’s difficult to remember (because I now have difficulty remembering), but I believe the last time I was untroubled by joint pain was early in the Clinton administration. Before knee surgery, it was painful to climb stairs or hills. Luckily advanced medicine has now fixed that. Now it is painful to do nothing, to sit in a chair or lie in bed.
Even if I can take my mind off my joints, spring and fall I have seasonal allergies to contend with. It’s surprising how difficult it is to get a little shut-eye when you’re hacking and sneezing and wheezing and sniffling. Sometimes the noises coming out of my own head unbidden are so loud that I can hear them through the earplugs and pillow over my head that I use to muffle the sounds of my wife’s snoring, a sound that mimics either an elk in search of companionship or an outboard motor.
And if by some stroke of luck, I finally manage to dose off, I can count on an early-rising neighbor to get in a little leaf blowing, lawn mowing or carpentry before breakfast. Facing the day is hard after such a night, and probably won’t get any easier when combined with the next course on the old age menu – the degenerative, irreversible, undiagnosable, terminal disease “that ends this strange eventful history…sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”
And the guy who wrote that died at fifty-two. He was probably in a weakened state caused by being sleepless in Stratford.