I knew I had truly attained middle age when, in a flash of insight, I fully, viscerally, understood the meaning of the expression, “Youth is wasted on the young.”

Notwithstanding the ideals of attractiveness, there is simply something incredibly beautiful about all young people – their youthful, wrinkle-free skin, their clear eyes, their shiny and abundant hair, their firm-not-yet-flabby bodies. In other words, there is something undeniably ripe and juicy about youthfulness.

And that freshness is more than just skin-deep. There is an idealism and energy about them that few older adults can maintain. Young people truly believe they are going to live forever and can achieve anything. They are full of new ideas and ideals. They can change the world. And most of all, they are convinced they are immortal. In my twenties, death never entered my thoughts except peripherally through the loss of a grandparent. True, there were occasional young people who died because they had gotten into a car with a drunken friend, had lost the battle with a tragic health issue or had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But these were still anomalies – they were tragic, but most definitely didn’t include me.

If I could give my younger self advice, it would be to enjoy every moment to its fullest and worry a little less about the future. Appreciate that thin body and thick hair because it ain’t going to get any better than NOW. All too soon will be gone the halcyon days of reducing your food intake for a couple of days and dropping three pounds or getting by on five hours of sleep and still looking dewy and refreshed in the morning. In a few years time even eight hours of sleep will no longer hide the bags under your eyes. In other words, don’t squander your best years. But being young, I know I would not have listened, for every young person is convinced that older people really don’t know anything about life.

I recall declaring to my aunt and uncle on my eighteenth birthday that if I died then and there, I would have no regrets. Of course I had no expectation of dying at age 18, so it was an empty statement. For their part, my aunt and uncle accepted this assertion with bemused constraint. In retrospect, however, I realize that at 18 I had not yet finished university, held a “real” job, lived alone, had a serious relationship, suffered a broken heart, or experienced the terribly rewarding responsibilities of parenting children.

Flash forward thirty years and I see the world through different eyes. A much more clear-eyed view of my place in the universe, even if reading glasses are now required to make out the fine print. With the death of my parents’ generation, I am keenly aware that my friends and I will be the next to go. Time has become a finite and precious resource. As a friend’s son remarked jokingly to her on her 65^th birthday, “Only 20 more summers!”. Pithy. And chilling.

Health is also becoming an increasingly precious commodity. Cancer, heart attack and stroke are bogeymen, waiting just around the corner to pounce when least expected. Arthritis is creeping in one joint at a time (perhaps it’s time to try another type of joint to help get through the bad days?). Other aches and pains are becoming constant, unwelcome companions. Finding ways to work around these various ailments is becoming more of a priority, not to mention increasingly time-consuming and expensive. I now own an impressive inventory of over-the counter pain medications and creams, Tensor bandages and heating pads. I have invested in a better mattress and own several orthopaedic pillows, but still the pain in the [insert your choice of body part] continues. And I know the arsenal of weaponry will grow in strength and size based on the increasing need for more “life support” over time – canes, walkers, orthotics, crowns, hearing aids, pricy prescription medications, additional health aids hitherto unknown to me. …

Notwithstanding these mid-life prices, there is also a comfort in achieving this period of life. On the plus side of middle age (yes, Virginia, there is an up side), I find myself far less stressed about the “small stuff” than I was in my twenties. I have a confidence born of surviving embarrassing moments and failures. I know that I will land on my feet one way or another, although there may be a few bruises or hurt feelings along the way. I now understand that life is a journey, not a race to the finish line –  because behind that finish line is the next life event to experience in its happy/horrible visceral way. I have had my heart broken numerous times. I have supported family members and friends through illness. I have mourned lost loved ones and made an uneasy truce with grief. In other words, I am a survivor and have the confidence born of that tenacity.

Perhaps the most important lesson I have learned in realizing that I am in the prime of my middle age is that it is most definitely NOT going to get better. I am currently as good as I will ever be and my middle-aged self fully appreciates that. I understand that my body will age further and my memory will decline. I suppose accepting that is a sign of progress and maturity, maybe even wisdom. I also realize that I need to preserve my current state as best I can. Hence I will exercise, watch what I eat, get enough sleep and avoid whatever stress I can. I shall fight my imminent decrepitude at the pharmacy, at the gym, at the spa, and perhaps even on the beaches if I have the good fortune to escape Canadian winter for a few years. I shall never surrender!

I will call these preventative measures an investment in my old age. Because that youthful juiciness is just not coming back. Nor are the middle-aged aches and pains going to depart. Going forward I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. But still I am determined to make this my finest hour.

Tylenol, anyone?