Aging and Obsolescence

And the Unstoppable Force of Time

Hello my friend,

I hope you had a good weekend. The writing storm has continued. I’ve finished my remake of the performance management book and now nearly finished with another project. I’m very proud of this one. You’ll hear about it soon.

Our unexpected life twist has made me more reflective than normal. Maybe it’s because I’m feeling mortal, now more than ever. It’s ok though. Hopefully what I write benefits you. If it does, please leave a comment or reply back. It would make my day.

Now, let me tell you a little story…

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In my mind, I will always be young, vibrant, good-looking, and healthy. I guess that’s called self-esteem. Some might call it dementia. Since I’ll likely have that one day, let’s not go there yet.

But I learned a long time ago that reality cancels all the good thoughts and intentions.

When I played high school football, I played with anger. I wasn’t big, five foot nine and 180 pounds. I was just mean. Since we rarely won games, I decided to lean into scoring a different kind of victory: knocking players out of the game. I enjoyed hurting the guy across from me. When I graduated high school in 1982, I knew I’d never strap on pads and a helmet again.

Senior year. The season and my career was over. After this pic was taken, I took off the pads and never wore them again.

But I dreamed about it. Often. And I looked for ways to recapture some of that glory. In Australia, I signed up for the command rugby team, which was made up of American and Aussie sailors. The hitting was different, and it was much more of a gentleman’s sport. No cheap shots or trash talk, my preferred version of a physical game. We’d knock the shit out of each other, then drink together after the match.

But when I transferred in 1988, I figured that was it for rugby.

Then, on a Friday afternoon in 1996, I got the chance to play tackle football again. We often secured the clinic on Friday afternoons to do group PT. On this Friday, some of my techs wanted to play football. I figured it would be touch since there was no equipment, but they insisted on tackle. As the supervisor, I’d be held responsible if anyone got hurt, but it sounded like fun to me. Plus, it might give me a chance to show these young bucks a thing or two.

This is me right about the time of my football reality check. No longer in my prime.

We kicked off. The receiver fielded it and ran toward me. It was perfect. I’d done this regularly on the football field in high school. Run as hard as you can at the ball carrier and let physics take the pain out of it. Instinct kicked in and I lasered toward him. As I lowered my shoulder and launched forward to deliver the blow, I expected to hear the collision, see the flash you get when you make contact, and smell that strange pepper scent that comes with taking a blow to the head.

Except all I tasted was a mouthful of grass.

The runner juked, and I missed him by several feet. It was almost as if I were standing in wet concrete. The 18-year-olds were kicking my 32-year-old ass. I felt human. Old. Irrelevant. Almost like they let me on the field because they felt sorry for me. It was the last time I would attempt any contact sport. I knew those days were over.

Aging and obsolescence are two separate things. Both are inevitable. One tends to cause the other.

At age 32, I was at the top of my game in the Navy. I was also finishing my master’s degree in the evenings and applying for a commissioning program. I was the right age and had the right skills and experience to take that next step.

This happened at the same time I was getting my ass handed to me on the football field by my young technicians. At the end of that game, I knew this was no longer an area where I’d ever be successful. I envied those young men. Their speed. Their stamina. Their fearlessness. But I also knew I had different goals. A future to plan for. A family to support. And at 32, I was the perfect age to break through professionally. Obsolete as a tackle football player, but in my prime professionally.

I saw this again during the last few years of my management consulting career. In the beginning, I was younger than a lot of the attendees. That evened out for a while, and then I realized I was usually the oldest guy in the room. But I never saw it that way. Until one day I remembered seeing an aging trainer when I was in my prime and feeling very sorry for him. He was likely my current age. I suddenly felt self-conscious and invisible. I knew it was time to pack it in and retire. I did that last August.

One of my last appearances. Now always the oldest man in the room.

This past week, I spoke to my nearly 30-year-old son in Las Vegas. He told me he was getting back into video games. I’m the one who got him into them. We started with the Disney Tarzan game, and he later graduated to hunting games. I had a bootleg version of Duke Nukem on my PC back then that he loved. Later came the PS2, PS3, PS4, and now PS5, along with all the Call of Duty games and everything else. In college, he made a bunch of online friends and played with them virtually.

Knowing he used to play online with friends, I asked if he’d reconnected with any of them.

“No,” he said. “I just do single-player now.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Dad, it’s not fun to play shooter games like Call of Duty anymore. You have these stupid kids who are so fast you can’t even get a shot off. It’s like all they do is sit there and play games all day. I can’t keep up anymore. When I do play online, it’s just things like Mario Kart. Just to relax.”

He discovered what I did at about the same age I was when I discovered it.

Age is inevitable. So is obsolescence. In tackle football and online gaming.

But like I did at 32, my son has different and more valuable skills that are relevant and nowhere near obsolete. Skills at work that are well compensated, and house music mixing skills that are honestly amazing.

Today, at 62, I realize what happens with age is that all our experiences become like the ingredients used to make Tennessee whiskey. The process is hard, hot, stinky, and dirty. The result at first is a clear, harsh liquor. It’s not ready yet. Whiskey needs to sit in oak barrels to age. We need to age too. At 17, I’d completely flop if I had to give a presentation at a conference. 12-year-old Dustin could never design a 3PL warehouse. We need aging and seasoning too. Only then are we ready.

Me with Jack and my cousins Anne and Diego. At Jack’s place in Lynchburg, TN

Today, I’m the barrel of Old No. 7.

I can’t crack someone’s skull on the football field anymore. I’m not sure I could stand and teach a one-day management workshop now. Or travel 35 weeks a year again.

But I know things. I’ve experienced things. I’ve learned things. I’ve seen things. I’ve tried things. I’ve failed at things. And all those things are now my greatest strength.

I’m not alone.

These past few weeks, I’ve done a lot of walking in a place where there are far more people than where I live. Here’s what I notice: people don’t make eye contact. They ignore you. You are invisible.

Except for one demographic: old men like me.

Skin color and nationality don’t matter. We are one brotherhood of gray. We look right at home in a flat cap like I wear, a Desert Storm veteran hat, or even the occasional fedora. Our clothes aren’t fashionable because honestly, who gives a fuck? Nobody notices us anyway.

But we notice each other. We can’t not notice.

Our greeting is eye contact and a simple nod.

I see you.
I am you.
We’ve seen some shit in our day, haven’t we?

There is always energy in that nod. I’m learning to love that. It was worth waiting for.

Then we move along and continue to observe and learn. After all, there is no such thing as too much knowledge and experience.

Or whiskey, for that matter.

Have an AWEsome week,