Don’t Let the Old Man In

There’s this line from a song by Toby Keith, of all people, that’s stuck in my head like a damn splinter: “Don’t let the old man in.” He wrote it after Clint Eastwood told him that was the secret to still making movies at 88. And say what you want about Toby or Clint, but that right there? That’s gospel.

Because the old man’s coming. He’s standing outside your front door, chewing the same damn toothpick, holding a bag full of pills, orthopedic shoes, and defeat. And he wants in. He doesn’t knock. He just waits. Some folks open the door early, invite him to sit on the recliner, hand him the remote, and say, “Well, I guess this is it.” But not me. And hopefully, not you either.

You want to age gracefully? Screw that. Age resiliently. Age with teeth. With music still in your ears and sweat on your back and a brain that hasn’t curled up like a dry leaf in October.

We’ve been lied to. Sold this idea that 60 is “the new 40” like it’s some kind of marketing pitch. It isn’t. It’s 60. It creaks. It aches. It forgets where the hell the keys are even though they’re still in your hand. But it’s also wise. It’s loud. It’s finally giving fewer shits about what doesn’t matter. And that’s its own kind of freedom. But the danger is thinking that because you’ve lived long enough to earn an AARP card, you’re supposed to act like life’s on a downhill slide now. Like your best years are behind you. That’s the old man talking. Don’t listen.

Because that voice? The one that tells you you’re too old to change, too slow to run, too tired to try again? That voice isn’t yours. That’s the voice of fear dressed up in a cardigan. That’s the old man pretending he’s being “realistic.” Realism is fine when you’re checking your tire pressure or doing your taxes. But when it comes to your soul? To your reason for getting up in the morning? Screw realism. Give me rebellion.

I’m not talking about clinging to your youth like some creepy dude in a Camaro still trying to hit on waitresses half his age. I’m talking about staying curious. Staying challenged. Being the oldest guy in the yoga class or the newest one in a college course or the loudest voice in a jam band that only plays dive bars on Tuesdays. Whatever keeps your brain from calcifying and your spirit from retiring before you do.

Hell, I didn’t even start writing seriously until I was 60. Most of the stuff you read from me now? Wouldn’t exist if I’d let the old man in and told myself that window had closed. I spent decades running from the parts of myself I thought didn’t matter. Until I finally realized the old man only wins when you stop giving a damn about learning, moving, laughing, doing.

So now I deadlift. I hike. I hit the road with my wife like two kids who forgot they’re not supposed to dream anymore. I write horror stories. I build weird websites. I coach people older than me who think they’re done. And every single day, I wake up and remind myself that the old man is still out there. Still waiting. But today’s not the day.

Here’s the secret nobody tells you: you don’t “feel” old until you stop doing things that scare you a little. You start to rot the second you settle. The moment you decide growth is for the young, and you're just here to monitor your fiber intake and wait for your next colonoscopy.

No thanks.

You want to stay young? Stay in motion. Stay in service. Stay pissed off at the right things and in awe of the beautiful ones. Listen to music that didn’t come out when you were in high school. Try food you can’t pronounce. Argue with your assumptions. Love people so hard it makes your knees hurt. And laugh—God, laugh at the mess of it all, because there’s no greater sign of life than the ability to laugh when it’s all falling apart.

People talk a lot about adding years to your life. That’s great. But I’m more interested in adding life to my years. I’ve been through too much—war, cancer, heartbreak, loss—to coast now. This second act is the one I’m writing myself. No rules. No scripts. No surrender.

So if you’re standing there wondering if you’re too late, if your best is behind you, or if you should just shut the door and let the old man in, let me be clear.

Don’t.

Don’t let the old man in. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

You owe that to the younger version of you who thought he’d never make it this far. And you owe it to the future version who still has something to say, something to build, someone to love, something worth fighting for.

Let the old man wait.