"We getting old, bro," tinkles Scooter as he stumbles out of the toilet for the umpteenth time during our boys' trip out on the shores of Rocky Bay.
"Speak for yourself," I shoot back.
I am at an age where I really do not mind being called "Thatha" or "Umkhulu" or even plain old "Uncle". I quite enjoy being offered the pensioner's discount at some stores or even the free entry at the municipal swimming pool. But do not dare suggest I am getting old! Like Scooter, Willy and Woolgers, the later sixties of our birth are moving further away but I feel sharper and faster than most bar the more frequent piddle stops. Even though I have no pension to speak of, I seem to be able to squeeze a lot more out of life than I might have a few decades ago.
"Ageing brings a surprising number of genuine joys, many backed by research and echoed in countless personal accounts from people who have lived long enough to notice the shift," insisted one of our scholarly friends prone to watching the "Blue Zone" on TV rather than actually strapping boots to get out and find those genuine joys.
I must admit while the physical side gets plenty of attention, and not always the flattering kind, the internal upgrades often feel like quiet superpowers that younger versions of us rarely have access to. You will know from my many missives from remote hilltops, deep bush and mundane airport lounges that I seek out quiet pleasures. I can tell you that in recent years, I have experienced a dramatic drop in pointless anxiety, overreacting and sweating the small stuff. Like with Scooter's frequent stops at the little boy's room, hormonal changes creep up but so does perspective.
"Most storms pass eventually," says Woolgers as he switches off his phone to keep distance from the neighbour pestering him about the bougainvillea branch hanging over the fence.
"I dunno what it is about Durban Indians and chopping trees because they think rogues will be hiding there," laments Willy.
The professor friend of Blue Zone fame tells us that, "People in their golden years are far less troubled by anger, stress, or worry than they were in their 20s to 40s. The background noise of life quiets down."
I told her that this is my silver period but I get the drift. I am in that phase where I make frequent trips to the crematorium but I always insist on a return ticket. There is also the surreptitious intent that by going to many events it is a small investment in ensuring that I get a crowd at my funeral. I have already insisted to the ones likely to bury me that I want none of the "celebration of his life" nonsense. I want people to come and cry even if professional mourners are to be hired. The other wish is that I should have a glass coffin. This is not because I am some sort of Sleeping Beauty. It is just that I want to see who takes the time to come bid me farewell.
Enough of those macabre thoughts. Even though there are more years behind me than ahead of me, I fully intend to milk every minute of every day I have been blessed with.
"Happiness tends to rise with age," insists Willy whose weightlifting is angled toward lifting beer crates rather than trips to the gym. The malty brew always brings out his best smiles.
I rate this decade as the happiest I have known. There is a natural shift toward focusing on the positive, letting go of negativity, and simply savouring the moment. I have stopped performing for an audience even though I am frequently in front of them, mainly funerals though. The pressure to impress people, chase status, or compare myself has long faded. One of the most underrated joys is not overthinking every decision. That freedom is liberating. I am finally being allowed to be myself without apology.
I feel sharper at reading situations, making decisions, and handling relationships. Empathy deepens, idealism again increases, and one becomes more resilient. Relationships and long-term friendships feel richer and more satisfying too.
"Lukker that the kids are grown up and gone," confesses Scooter now that he has fewer obligations.
In these silver years, I find that I have more space for hobbies, travel, learning, volunteering, or just sitting in my dhoti at the window with my green tea from the Nilgiri Hills.
"People often rediscover passions they shelved decades earlier, and many describe this as one of the purest joys, time finally belongs to you," is a good paraphrasing of my scholarly friend.
I am finding that small joys hit harder: a good conversation, time with little children, a sparkling sunrise, or simply being alive with hands and feet that work. I also feel more grateful and present than ever before. I am rocking silver without apology, walking in ugly but comfy shoes without caring who sees, saying no without guilt, or enjoying "older man" pleasures like flannel blankets, Milo and re-reading favourite books.
Of course, ageing is not all upside. My body has changed, health can require more effort, and loss becomes more familiar. But actively enjoying the process highlights that mindset matters enormously. Ageing positively takes courage.
I have a great role model in a fine gentleman who turns 90 this week. He has had a profound impact on my life, my children, his children and the thousands he taught in several decades as a schoolteacher. There is a great song that comes to mind in celebration of his living years, Ingrid Bergman in the 1942 classic Casablanca coos, "Play it again, Sam."
Kiru Naidoo is a local writer again at large, this time deep in the KwaZulu-Natal wilderness.
