Scapegoats, Strategic Ignorance Keep You Young

Not too many years ago, everyone in my 20th century political history course was required to deliver a paper on the exceedingly boring topic of their choice.

I chose the 1972 anti-ballistic missile treaty, complete with an exceedingly painful discussion of missile throw weight that was foolishly based on a baseball analogy. The analogy was a stretch to begin with, but it was especially useless because I was at a university in England where no one understood baseball.

Most of the other talks were on the same level, and I don't remember anything from that course except one thing:

One speaker, an older student, gingerly propped himself up at the podium and, almost with tears in his eyes, said, "I was fine when I left the pub last night."

"Honestly. I had three pints -- fine. Walked home -- fine. Tucked myself into bed -- fine. Woke up this morning -- shattered." he said. "Absolutely shattered. I'm getting old, you see."

There was wonder in his voice. Amazement. Shock. Dismay. Grief. It was as if it had all just snuck up on him, like some random act of violence. He had been sitting there, minding his own business, and someone had attacked him from behind and given him a hangover.

Fact is he wasn't that old. He was about as old as I am now. I'll be 28 years old later this month. That's not old. I'm not even president of Cuba yet. I am definitely not old. Not old.

Definitely.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself last week when I woke up with my head pounding.

It didn't make any sense. My wife and I had gone out for a few drinks with some friends and then walked home and gone to bed. It was as if somewhere along the walk home I had been cursed by a hangover-dispensing gypsy hiding in the bushes.

A few days later, I had my first rugby practice of the season. That night, I slept in 30-minute fits because the pain in every muscle (even my pinky hurt) would wake me up if I attempted even the slightest movement.

At about 3 a.m. I woke my wife:

"Honey, I'm old," I said.

In my voice I heard a familiar tone: Amazement. Shock. Dismay. Grief.

This weekend, I got an e-mail from my grandmother in which she made a passing reference to my impending birthday: "I don't really like to remember how old you are because then I have to remember my age -- which I avoid doing as much as possible."

My grandmother is one of those people who are so active that just hearing about them makes you tired. If she were to tell you about her average week, you'd be chugging Gatorade by the time she got to Wednesday.

And her fountain of youth appears to be a stubborn refusal to acknowledge her birthdate.

I can do that. From now on, I have absolutely no idea how old I am. Any post-rugby pain that I may experience and would have previously blamed on age will now be blamed on gypsy curses.

Strategic memory loss and scapegoating of gypsies. That's the way forward for me.

Besides, if I did know how old I am, would it really matter? There's music that I haven't heard, books I haven't read, people I haven't met and hundreds of things to fill my thoughts rather than questions of my age.

Perhaps the key to avoiding feeling old is not allowing the life that you live to grow old or stale like a discussion of ballistic missile throw weight.

Drinking more water and stretching more often might be a good idea, too.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.