Old, not sick

I’ve started to worry that living a long life is becoming a full-time job. As someone who has recently burrowed deep into the rabbit hole of longevity, I am fast reaching the conclusion that getting older is honestly not what it used to be. 

Take my late grandmother, for example. A tiny, smoking, gambling, feisty survivor. Her favourite saying, delivered whenever anyone offered to help her, was, “I am old. Not sick!” 

But then at the age of 84, she found herself struggling to stand for too long at the one-armed bandits at Montecasino, which is when she decided she needed a hip replacement. Everything was on track until she met the anaesthetist, who told her in no uncertain terms that he would not allow the surgery to proceed unless she stopped smoking. “Really?” she asked, in her unmistakable German accent. “There is a chance I will die young?” 

That aside, she stopped smoking. She had the surgery and then promptly announced that she was emigrating to Israel. 

It was a remarkable decision at her age. Yet, off she went on the next adventure of her already spirited life. She settled well, but I suspect she was slightly disappointed that the Israel Defense Forces showed no interest in recruiting her. Frankly, it was their loss. 

She lived to 94. 

My grandmother never took an ice bath. She didn’t meditate. I’m fairly certain she never practised mindfulness, unless giving “helpful advice” to someone in a supermarket queue counts. 

She wasn’t tracking her REM sleep. She didn’t wear a smartwatch that congratulated her for standing up. She never measured her protein intake. She didn’t know what inflammation was unless someone had offended her. As far as I know, she wasn’t injecting peptides, boosting her NAD levels, swallowing creatine, or discussing mitochondrial health over marzipan chocolate. 

She just … lived. 

Which brings me to my problem. The longevity industry has done something remarkable. It’s turned staying alive into a hobby. 

The deeper I venture into this world, the more it seems that extending your life expectancy leaves you with very little time to actually enjoy it. My day now appears to involve taking supplements before breakfast, supplements with breakfast, supplements after breakfast, and supplements because I took the breakfast supplements. And drinking no less than my body weight by lunchtime. And because creatine demands liquid, apparently. 

Then there is exercise. But not just exercise. Zone 2 cardio. Strength training. Mobility work. Recovery. Stretching. Pilates. Apparently, if I sit for too long, I’ll die. If I don’t lift heavy things, I’ll die. If I don’t sleep eight hours, I’ll die. If I sleep nine hours, I may also die. 

Then there’s the cold plunge. The premise appears to be that voluntarily making yourself miserable somehow makes you healthier. By that logic, marriage should count as resistance training. 

And don’t forget the breathing exercises. Somewhere between box breathing, square breathing, and breathing through one nostril while visualising inner peace, I started wondering when exactly ordinary breathing had quietly fallen out of fashion. 

The irony is that many of us are working incredibly hard to add healthy years to our lives while simultaneously removing many of the things that make life enjoyable. The slice of birthday cake. Sleeping in. Sitting on the couch without your watch vibrating to remind you that you’ve been sedentary for 12 minutes. 

I’m not dismissing the science. Much of it is compelling, and there is no doubt that eating well, exercising, sleeping properly, and maintaining muscle mass dramatically improve both lifespan and health span. But perhaps the goal isn’t to spend every waking moment trying to avoid death, but rather to make sure we’re still fully alive while we’re busy living. 

I suspect my grandmother would have agreed. 

If asked, I know she would probably have lit a cigarette, taken a long, deeply satisfying drag, checked whether she’d hit three sevens on the one-armed bandit and reminded me, I am old. Not sick.