Last month I traveled to Nashville for yet another wedding. I can’t begin to count how many of these blessed events I’ve attended in the past 30 years between having plenty of friends and being from a large family with women who like to marry often.

But this one was different. This time it was the first of my grade school buddy’s kids at the altar, a ceremony where I wasn’t a guest of the bride or groom per se but a friend of the nuptial couple’s parents, and I helplessly watched the next generation of vow exchangers push me and my contemporaries into the category of “the older crowd.”

The groom was the same kid who as a newborn was regularly sung to sleep by our garage band in the early 1980s to tunes like “Ronnie Reggae” with lines including “He’ll run again in ’84, he’s bound to get us in a war.” Funny how a couple of decades will sneak by when you’re busy disclaiming growing older.

I scanned the crowd in the decorated chapel as we awaited the bride’s entrance and it was easy to spot the freshly scrubbed and hopeful child-like faces of the young couple’s friends opposing the distinguished looks of wrinkles and graying hair on their parents’ invitees, my “new” age group, the old farts.

It struck me that I had mysteriously become one of those aged dudes we used to ridicule when we were the groomsmen and ushers, as geezers with their thinning hair, contorted waistlines, dorky clothes and boring conversations. I paused to consider that some of the schoolyard buddies I sat there with had already completed 20-plus years of military and corporate service, had kids that would soon be getting married themselves, and frequently talked about not-to-distant retirements now at parties and get-togethers.

For all the joy and well-wishes I could muster for the new couple starting out today as man and wife, I couldn’t help but think that me and my pals were being thrown over some threshold from which there was no return, a transition from young and aspiring to old and in the way. It seemed as though all of those threats from our youth had materialized. We were, in a moment, becoming like our antiquated parents and there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.

Some of us have worked diligently at retaining our youthful energy and enthusiasm, denying Father Time his due justice as we attempt to out maneuver the Great Calendar with contemporary hair styles and staying up on current trends (though I have failed to participate in piercings, tattoos, and saggy pants that show off my boxers), but with more frequent aches and pains and an increasing reliance on our bifocals for daily activities, it’s getting tough on we middle-agers to keep up appearances as action figures.

The biggest concerns of the day aren’t finding parties, what’s the hip, new music or having enough money for beer. They’ve changed into interests in cholesterol counts, blood pressure levels and portfolio performance, along with trying to remember where we put something down. Overnight it’s become apparent that Geritol, Vitalis, saw palmetto and anti-aging supplements aren’t just for “old” people, they’re there to help “all” of us. Jeez, what a let down. At this rate a toupee and red convertible can’t be far behind.

I guess that it should come as no surprise that I find myself spending a greater amount of time these days with folks in their 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s. I seem to have more in common with this bunch for some reason than I do with “those kids,” meaning anyone younger than me. I once thought being 40 meant being an adult, nowadays it often borders on adolescence.

Maybe they move too fast or don’t take things seriously enough, but a few hours with these youngsters and I feel like just another old guy who can’t hang. It could well be that these “senior citizens” I now spend my time with are playing a crucial role in the preservation of my youth, where no matter how much I age I’ll still be the “young fella” in that crowd. Now that is something that can make a person forget what it was he forgot, and feel young about it.

One would think that after 2,000 generations on Earth humans would have come up with a more gentle way of dealing with aging, but nay. I suppose that if we’re one of the lucky ones, one day we’ll be slumped, wrinkled, hard of hearing and toting blotchy skin and outdated ideas urging those “kids” in their 50s and 60s to enjoy what’s left of their youth.

Aging may not always be graceful or comfortable, but from what I can gather it does beat the alternative. Next time you’re standing in the checkout line waiting for some slow, old codger fumbling to find the right size bill for his bran flakes, or stuck behind an antique driver whose head you can’t even see above the seat doing 20 mph, just remember; with a little luck and good fortune, one day that will be you, wondering where all the time has gone and if its too early to go to bed yet.

(John Beckman is an aging builder and organic farmer in Sylva. He can be reached at info@unahwi-ridge.com.)