So, what does that mean for our expression of “dog years” compared to human years: one dog year equals seven human years? I’ll leave that up to the math experts.
But I was at an informal college reunion recently, and one of our classmates showed up looking like he’s a generation older than the rest of us. People were shocked as he hadn’t shown his age-worn face at a party in quite some time. Due to heavy drinking (he’s sober now), a lifetime in the California sun, and, likely, some unfortunate genetics, this guy looked like he was aging in dog years.
That’s a harsh thing to say, but what was miraculous was that everyone wanted to be with him. He had all the qualities of a loving dog. He was so attentive, curious, loving, and passionately engaged with life that I thought he might lick all of us. He seemed like he would be the most loyal friend. When someone shows up that way, you don’t notice their wrinkles; you notice their energy.
Aging is something we do in public. We can hide other facts about ourselves but we wear our age with shame, pride, or touch-ups. No matter how artfully a face has been adorned or a hairline has been restored, it is obvious to all that an older person inhabits this image. How we feel about our longevity is on display, not only in our attempts at concealment but in how we embrace or resist our additional years. This experience reminded me that as we age, beauty moves from our faces to our hearts.
-Chip