My smoking hot love biscuit is working on covering a Toby Keith song. Perhaps you’ve heard it. It accompanied the closing credits of “The Mule,” starring an old, still sexy as hell Clint Eastwood. The song, “Don’t Let the Old Man In,” is a strong piece of writing and singing, so good that Willie Nelson, (who once tweeted that he has officially outlived his pecker,) and should be wise to all things elder, has covered it too.

The lyrics aren’t about coming of age but rather about age coming for you, “knocking at your door,” the lines go. Something about the song, especially when SHLB sings it, stills me, expressing tears down my cheeks, exposing the nerves of time and what you have and haven’t contained.

The idea of locking the door to aging is ponderable. We scurry through life, responsible and mature, acting and dressing era specific, shifting our makeup, hairstyles, and hem lines to what would be considered “suitable for a person your age.” Adulting is serious business, and it becomes expected that we advance with the phases, sign the back of the AARP card with its discount propaganda, slip on orthopedic inserts, and slink quietly into the dusk, because Lord knows, we shouldn’t be driving after dark. Let discernment in.

It all goes fast, too. I know it’s cliché and I could insert “the days are long; the years are short” mumbo jumbo here and get all nostalgic thinking about it, but damn, how do you wake up in what feels like ten minutes with saggy neck skin, grown children, and more birthdays resting behind you than waiting ahead? Let reflection in.

I hurt my knee back in the spring and resisted a trip to the orthopedist because I didn’t want to hear that I shouldn’t run anymore. Eventually I went, hoping for a quick lube of cortisone and a prescription refill for the denial I’d been taking with a shot of whiskey since the onset of pain. The doctor looked at my x-ray and started the sentence, “At your a…” I held up my hand, halting him mid-sentence. 

Don’t say it, I willed. I’ll not be hearing “at your age.” The film revealed scar tissue, arthritis and cartilage wear. It’s nothing major, just my 53 year-old leg. We’ve been together for a while and we are going to keep on doing our thing with the assistance of nerve numbing gel. Let help in.

What if, as the song suggests, we rally against admission to the old dude and his baggage? What if we deny passage to the senior lady? What if even as we ache and atrophy, we hunker down, fearlessly treading water in youth’s fountain? As Toby and Willie sing, “How old would you be if you didn’t know the day you were born?” Let vigilance in.

The accompanying photo for this blog was contributed by my friend, Alana. She is a fifty-year-old bad ass. If I could take one thing on “Naked and Afraid,” I would skip the machete and mosquito netting and take Alana. She is smart, fit, and wildly beautiful. She found this picture on her daughter’s phone, designating the playlist she calls, “Oldies.” (There’s a picture of Alana and her soccer teammates when she was a freshman at NCSU.) Let’s face it, on that playlist is probably Prince, U2, and Whitesnake. It’s the music that we danced, drank, and smoked weed to, back when we were young. If this is, “oldie,” dear grasshopper daughter, you have far to travel. Let perspective in. 

And since we are getting all crazy with barring the door to the old, let’s mull for a moment about all of our dispensable tickets since the generations behind us are clearly watching. If we truly control our admissions office, why let hate in? What about bigotry and prejudice? Why allow those inside? What about selfishness and its prom date, narcissism? What about cold-heartedness and lying? What about pure ole meanness? What about the triplets, bitterness, grudge-holding, and contempt? If we are going to take full responsibility of this one shot, our only life, then how can we neglect staffing the front gate?. It’s the only way to make our human sanctuary truly our own. Check ID at the door; let good in.

I wonder as I contemplate Toby’s song and consider being my own gate keeper, what might need to be gathered up for Goodwill or landfill? How might I interrogate being my best version of myself? Years pass by, cluttering my clarity, impeding my path, blocking my view. Take inventory. It has been my experience that what lives inside me, my brain, my heart, my body, my soul, has a way of seeping to the surface unless I purposefully excuse it or never allow it to sign a lease. Let your best in.

In my personal square footage, I’ve evicted emotions, demons, and people that shouldn’t be watching TV in my living room, hiding under my bed, sharing my secrets, or influencing my thoughts or feelings. I am committed to de-hoarding the collective of all that resides within me, editing to find the right blend of love and kindness. Knowing better means doing better. And perhaps that never ends, age brings wisdom and responsibility and a chance to shine the lamp for those who follow. In a world that can be dark and scary, the license to be old, mean, entitled, or resigned to complacency doesn’t happen just because you stack up the decades. Be the one to set the private and public stage with what you allow inside and what you project outside. There is a difference between being old and being the revered “oldies.” One dissolves into dust and one survives forever, classic vinyl. Let timeless truth in.