Late Adulthood
My favorite local Italian restaurant seemed all sleek lines and sparkly minimalism the other night, lit with holiday cheer. It was buzzing as usual. Not chaotic, just the kind of beautiful noise that comes from folks who are getting out into the wild for the holidays.
Visible through the large restaurant windows, the upper red cliffs of Zion National Park glowed in the sunset. I had settled into my favorite table, enjoying the faint hum of laughter and clinking silver and glasses when I noticed them: two guys—I’d say millennials--deep in conversation at the next table. Readers of this column will know that I eavesdrop like an Asian grandmother.
The first had some pretty unruly hair and wore a floral button-down that practically shouted “garage band lead singer.” His energy matched the shirt. The other was more reserved, with a clean-shaven face and an elegant navy sweater over a crisp light collar that suggested he might own shares in a tech startup. At first glance, they seemed like old friends, the kind who could pick up right where they left off no matter how much time had passed.
“So, OpenAI!” Floral Shirt shouted, twirling his fork like a drumstick, “Are you guys just writing the apocalypse these days, or is it still cool to work there?”
Sweater chuckled, pushing his glasses up. “If by apocalypse, you mean giving people tools to make TikTok captions more poetic, then yes, we’re on it. But seriously, the advancements in large language models? Insane. Mankind has entered a new era.”
Sweater offered his glass to toast. Floral Shirt cracked a demeaning smile, amused at how reliably the wine was working. He almost told Sweater he was adorable, I surmised. Wine can work both ways.
“New era!” Floral Shirt blasted, but chewing thoughtfully. “Makes you sound like you’re taming the West, but really you’re making chatbots smarter.”
“And what are you doing, exactly?” Sweater shot back, smirking. “Still shredding power chords in your garage?”
Floral Shirt leaned back. “Absolutely. Cathartic. Guilty as charged.”
“Do any hiking this summer?” Sweater asked. “I told you that I hiked Mt. Hood in July, right. Nearly fell into a crevasse.”
“I’ll admit,” Floral Shirt answered, “my summer wasn’t that cinematic. Just working on extending human lifespan at my biotech company. No big deal.”
“Oh yeah, the longevity drug thing,” Sweater said, leaning forward. “Do you guys actually think you’re going to crack that whole senescence-of-cells puzzle? Because, fun fact, no one’s made it past 128. At least not officially.”
Floral Shirt nodded, his voice softening. “True. But life expectancy skyrocketed over the last century. It’s about quality, not just quantity. We’re looking at extending the functional, healthy years.”
They seemed to need a break and sat back in silence. Floral Shirt quickly grabbed another piece of pizza, tearing into it. I noticed how Sweater glanced at him with a faint smile, a look that lingered just a beat longer than one might expect from friends. Was it admiration? Fondness? Something more? I couldn’t tell.
“Hmm,” Floral Shirt said, tapping the table with his index finger. “This reminds me of an article I read in The Atlantic this week by um . . . Jonathan Rauch."
“I read it . . . I think,” Sweater said. “He’s the one who talks about “late adulthood,” right? A new stage of life he’s proposing between middle age and old age. Kind of reframes what it means to grow older.”
“Yes! There’s another decade of life we can all expect, and he says rather than stick it into “old age” come up with a new category called “late adulthood.” I’m game. I mean who wants to retire at 65 anymore? The gist is: aging isn’t all downhill. It’s got perks. Equanimity, resilience, the ‘positivity effect’—older folks appreciate life’s blessings more. And wisdom! Turns out, wisdom is a thing.”
Sweater raised an eyebrow. “Wisdom? Is that what you call it when my dad tells me how to parallel park for the 3,000th time?”
Floral Shirt laughed. “Fair. But seriously, Rauch says older people don’t just stop developing. They learn differently, sure, but they’re still evolving. My uncle’s seventy and consulting for two companies while remodeling his third house. Not third house in a row. His third current house! Makes me feel lazy just watching him.”
Sweater nodded. “My boss is 68 and still the sharpest person in the room. And my grandma—she’s 89—you’d love her. Get this. I called her to wish a Happy Thanksgiving, and she talked for a few minutes and there was some commotion, and she said, just a sec dear, I’m boarding the boat. I said, what boat. She was going on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. Haha.”
“You’re right. I would love her! That is adorable."
"But here’s the thing. You can extend life all you want, but you can’t avoid the elephant in the room. Death.”
Floral Shirt sighed dramatically. “Oh, here we go. Midlife crisis monologue incoming. Aren’t you just a sweet vase of roses?”
Sweater laughed but didn’t deny it. “Fine. You’re right. I’m forty, but instead of buying a sports car, I joined a philosophy group.”
“Oh, that is desperate,” Floral Shirt teased. “Does this mean you’re lost to the rest of us now? OK, so what do philosophers even say about death? Enlighten me, Socrates.”
Now I was really interested and stopped chewing so I could catch everything. It’s something I often hear. First the hit against philosophy, then the curious question. Silly humans! But I truly was enjoying the evening. The lasagna was scalding hot and delicious and the conversation I wasn’t having truly enlightening. Furthermore the light on the top of the mountains was going from bright cadmium orange to a spring blossom pink. Oh the joy of spending time with one’s self with others.
Sweater leaned back, crossing his arms. “There’s plenty. Heidegger says being aware of death gives life meaning. Epicurus thought we shouldn’t fear death because, well, we won’t be around to experience it.”
Floral Shirt leaned forward, grinning. “And what about…uh…what’s his name? The guy who said life is just suffering?”
“Schopenhauer?” Sweater sweetly and sincerely offered.
“Yeah, that guy. Bet he was a blast at parties.”
“You’d be surprised,” Sweater replied. “He had a thing for poodles.”
The two of them laughed, and I couldn’t help but smile myself. The server passed by my table, refilling my water glass. “Enjoying everything so far?” he asked. I nodded, distracted.
As the sun gave out, the restaurant turned all bright lights. The banter between my two neighbors was both grounding and uplifting, I thought, as I swirled the last of the wine in the glass—a reminder that whether we’re hiking mountains or extending lifespans, it’s the connections we share and the questions we ask that truly define us.