Back in Boston this summer, I sat across from a work colleague at a table at Orinoco, an Andean restaurant in the South End. Let’s call her Sally. Over a glass of wine, Sally was recounting a story of a friend who had just sold her house. When I mentioned that I had done so recently as well, it stopped for her a second. Then, she restarted with the observation “well, that makes sense. We’re basically the same age.”

That moment stuck with me because even though she is only about 10 years younger than I am, early 40’s vs. mid 50’s, my immediate and nearly physical reaction was that we might have a lot of things in common — but we definitely are not the same age. 

This is a blog about being sandwiched between being middle-aged and elderly. It is a strange time of life that doesn’t get a lot of ink. I remember starting to write “The Sandwiched Man” v1 because I was looking to learn from the experiences of other men my age who were dealing with young children and elderly parents. Online, I found plenty of frustrated fathers and mostly older, female caregivers, but no one juggling quite the way I was trying to do. So, I started scribbling and sharing as I went. 

Mostly I did it for me. It was a lot to process and writing about it helped. Strangely, I am finding this stage to be a lot to process as well. 

Sally’s friend who sold a house did so to afford a better one in a nicer school district. I am on the other side of that experience now, having sold my version of that house last December before we moved down to Miami Beach. It sold quickly but moving out was physically one of the hardest things we’ve ever done. We are still dealing with trying to declutter everything. The other experience I’m on the other side of is selling my own childhood house, the clutter of which landed in our Wellesley basement. In your early 40’s, that moment probably is still ahead of you.

Sally lives in Boston, and has for most of her life. Even though we raised our kids in Wellesley, it never entirely felt like home to me, and now that we’ve sold our house, it’s definitely not. Our old stuff from that house (and some from my parents’ house) mostly lives in an apartment in Boston. That’s not really home either. Neither is Miami Beach and many days, I’m not sure it ever will. Home is something different now that I haven’t quite figured out. 

Sally told me about a shower later that night that she had just attended for one of her friends who became a first-time parent. I have friends who are becoming first-time grandparents. It’s happened often enough now that it doesn’t feel weird anymore. And that, itself, is weird.

10 years ago, my kids were 5th graders at Hardy Elementary and their friends’ parents were our friends. I remember the moment, years later, when I realized suddenly that they weren’t anymore and really hadn’t been for a while. It was shocking and sad and maybe a little galvanizing. It helped lead to one of the last big changes in my life, where I started focused on being a competitive athlete and finding friends that way. But that feels like a long time ago now. 

Sometimes I look in the mirror, and the version of Peter who is looking back really surprises me. Something has happened to his hair, his skin, his eyes. He’s 29, like I am in my head, but he looks, well, 54. 

You probably have heard that as people get old, conversations turn to health conditions a lot more often. I now know that is true. 

When I walk into unfamiliar showers in new hotels, 3 things happen. First, I check if the floor is slick because I’m acutely aware of the risk of breaking a hip if I fall. My mother died this way and it’s not like I think I’m going to die – but it doesn’t feel impossible anymore. Second, inevitably I realize that I can’t read the labels to determine which tiny bottle or wall dispenser is shampoo, shower gel or conditioner. My eyesight is slipping and it’s accelerating. Third, I almost always forget to pre-position a towel.

The forgetting is new. My memory has always been bulletproof, one of my secret weapons really, and suddenly I can’t recall things the way I used to. I’ll reach into my brain for a fact, and it’s not there, and then I’ll try to recall whether or not I should remember it. That still surprises me. 

But while Sally isn’t really young — my kids, who are 20, actually are young — and I certainly am not, I really am not old yet either. UN “experts” say old age begins at 60. Those same “experts” have also said at times that it starts at 65. Since apparently I only will enter old age at a round number starting with a “6”, I still have time.

I am nowhere close to retiring. Many days I daydream about having no accountability to anyone for anything professionally. Then I realize how much I might miss being someone who is good at what he does, and who other people count on. Although I talk more about health, mine is good, in some ways better than ever. What I’ve lost cognitively in unaided recall and quick thinking, I’ve more than made up for with experience and patience. Physically, everything basically works. No one has to take care of me yet. I still have a lot of adventures ahead, or at least I hope I do.  

Maybe I am old; I’m not going to live to 110 after all. Probably I only have 1/3 of my life left to go. That is a statement of fact. Pretending it’s not true isn’t going to get me anywhere. But I’m not elderly.

This is the place I find myself in now, and it’s strange.

I don’t think Sally meant to spark this level of introspection about where I am in life. In any event, I haven’t found a lot of good thinkers online who are working this through. So, I’m going to do it for myself. When I did this last time, I picked up a few readers, many of whom shared some of their struggles and triumphs with me. If that happens again here, that’s great too. If not – well, youth is fleeting but narcissism is eternal.