Lately I’ve been studying a fascinating sociological phenomenon known as “Me, Aging.”

Since retiring and entering what brochures like to call a “new season of life” (which sounds much prettier than “the back nine”), I’ve noticed a few… adjustments. Subtle shifts. Tiny recalibrations. Personality upgrades, if you will.

For instance, my relationship circle has shrunk. Not dramatically. Just… efficiently.

There are people I used to tolerate out of obligation, politeness, or the sheer stamina of youth. 

Now? If someone consistently makes life difficult, they are gently placed at arm’s length – if they’re lucky.

Most are not. Sorry, not sorry.

Retirement apparently comes with a complimentary pair of emotional pruning shears. Snip, snip. “Oh, you thrive on drama? That’s adorable. I gotta go.”

I’ve also begun paying much closer attention to how I spend my time and money. There are so many things I once believed were vitally important that now seem about as essential as a Jack LaLane Juicer (which Michelle once bought at 2 a.m.; but I’ll tell that story later). I look back and think, “Why did I care so much about that?”

But regret is useless. Onward we go.

What really fascinates me, though, is how I used to roll my eyes at older friends and relatives for certain habits. Planning entire days around meals. Being slightly convinced that every whispered conversation within a 40-foot radius was about them. Fixating.

I would think, “Why are they so self-focused?”

Now as I march steadily toward their territory, I’m beginning to understand. As you progress in years, you have to take care of yourself more deliberately. Young people become self-sufficient. They no longer need you to find their shoes, solve their math homework, or explain every little thing.

When you’re not constantly needed, it takes intentional effort not to pivot inward. It requires work to keep from becoming the star of every conversation.

I do not want to become the person who cannot form a sentence without starting it with “I.”

“I remember…”

“I think…”

“I once…”

I especially hope I don’t become the older folk who says “Well you know what I’d do.”

My kids say it’s too late.  I’ve already done it.

Conversation should go both ways. It’s not an opportunity to “talk at” someone like they’re an audience member who is attending a public reading  of your memoirs.

If you’re ever talking to me in the next decade or so, and I begin narrating my autobiography without invitation, feel free to gently nudge me. 

Or loudly interrupt me. I’ll understand.

But perhaps the most perplexing aging quirk I’ve observed is Appointment Anxiety.

There are people who, if they have a 10 a.m. appointment, will do absolutely nothing else that day. Nothing. The day is spiritually consumed.

Worse, some people treat appointments like airline departures during a snowstorm.

I heard about a man who routinely schedules the earliest possible appointments, and then stays up all night so he won’t oversleep. He doesn’t nap. He doesn’t rest. He just… hovers in consciousness until it’s time to leave.

I have a friend in medical sales who spends time in waiting rooms servicing equipment. More than once, an elderly patient has complained to him – assuming he works there – that they’ve been waiting “almost an hour.”

He kindly checks. They arrived an hour early, or more.

There is no staff available because the staff is busy with patients who arrived at their scheduled time.

Nurse friends tell me the too-early arrivals sometimes stress out the staff more than the late ones – especially if they’ve been sitting there since dawn, clutching their clipboard.

One gentleman showed up more than two hours early and then asked if they could “squeeze him in.”

“Did you ask for an earlier appointment?” the nurse asked. Blank stare.

When I asked someone why they arrive so early to everything, the answer was, “I’m busy.”

Busy with what? Well, that part was less clear.

Now, in fairness, I do understand the impulse. There’s something satisfying about getting required tasks done early so the rest of the day feels open and free. I, too, enjoy the feeling of crossing things off a list.

But I’m still in the “on time” phase of life. Occasionally the “barely on time” phase. Sometimes the “screeching into the parking lot by the skin of my teeth” phase.

I’m researching this early-bird mindset carefully. I want to know: Is it wisdom? Is it anxiety? Is it a deep philosophical commitment of some kind?

Because I can feel it coming.  I’ve been told our nervous system continues to changes and tweak itself as we grow older.  

One day I may find myself sitting in a parking lot at 6:15 a.m. for a 9 a.m. appointment, thermos in hand, engine off, triumphant.

“I have conquered the day,” I will whisper, as the sun rises.

For now, I’m observing. Taking notes. Monitoring my pronoun usage.

Maybe full wisdom is just around the corner.

If so, I hope it lets me sleep the night before.

I mean, there are limits to this aging stuff.