Reinvention before irrelevance

“It. Is. Later. Than. You. Think,” began the old-time radio program “Lights Out.”

Now science is confirming it, at least as far as professional life is concerned. Studies indicate that “for most people in most fields, decline starts earlier than almost anyone thinks,” according to Arthur Brooks, writing in The Atlantic. (A condensed version of the article, “Learning to Accept Your Decline,” is printed in the Jan. 17 edition of The Week, where I read it.)

Brooks cites research indicating the first 20 years of a career are where one can expect an upward arc, followed by a quick peak, and then the start of decline. According to this logic, a doctor who begins her career at age 30 would be sharpest diagnostically at around 50, before becoming less effective with each subsequent year.

By the time most of us are 70, Brooks writes, “the likelihood of producing a major innovation ... is approximately what it was at age 20 — almost nonexistent.” Given that, people need to reinvent themselves as something else — grandparent, volunteer, flagpole sitter — to avoid irrelevancy and a rush to Prozac.

The article mentions one example of reinvention, Johann Sebastian Bach. He experienced early success as a musical prodigy, saw his style of music go out of fashion, and retooled himself as an instructor and author of a book on baroque style. It kept him from going “baroque” — get it? — financially and mentally.

This faster-than-anticipated decline has some curious implications politically. We have a septuagenarian president in the White House, of course, and several of the major Democratic contenders for the job are also in their seventies.

I’ve often wondered why a person that age would aspire to the presidency at a time in life when he or she should be slowing down and enjoying retirement. F. Scott Fitzgerald famously noted there are no second acts in American lives, so maybe the unusual aspirations of older candidates are the exception that proves the rule. Or maybe it is just Brooks’ idea of reinvention in action — from senator or governor or mayor to a bigger stage.

Beyond politics, Brooks’ piece has implications for me, personally. I taught for two years directly out of college before becoming distracted by a second career in newspapers. I returned to the classroom at the age of 32. Based on that, I should be close to hitting my peak, instructionally. For my students, this year and next could be the best Schillig they’ll ever get, a sobering thought, considering I have so much yet to learn about the art and science of teaching.

I’m also in my 19th year of writing this column, so I must be close to apogee here, as well. (Some readers have argued that I reached my peak 18 years ago, and everything since has been one protracted slide into the journalistic muck.)

Like everybody who reads about inevitable decline, I like to think I am the exception to the rule, but in all likelihood, I am not.

Brooks says one way to avoid depression is to study the dead, a Buddhist tradition of “corpse meditation” designed to familiarize ourselves with the next stage of our physical bodies, to stop denying and learn to embrace death. No thanks.

My weekly ritual of running 20-plus miles is designed to do a lot of things — knock off pounds, elevate me to a runners high, make me forget about my problems. It’s also sometimes to deny the march of years, the morning aches and pains that have become more familiar, the persistent belief that I’m starting to move and think like an old man.

So, while I’m running toward something positive out there on the road each day, I’m also running away from something negative. Each time I say no to the running shoes makes it easier to stay at home the next time and contemplate morbid thoughts. I’d rather run.

In other words, no second act as a corpse contemplator for this guy. Maybe I ought to try politics.

Perish the thought. If you ever see my name on a ballot, you will know with certainty that it is later than you think.

chris.schillig@yahoo.com

@cschillig on Twitter