How old is old? After an existential bus encounter, one 64-year-old Kiwi considers his approach to ageing

Is giving up your seat on the bus good manners or a sign of something else? Photo / Getty Images

After a “lifelong resistance” to getting older, Chris Mirams explains how his grudging acceptance of aging has come with a few surprises.

It’s lodged in my mind and won’t budge.

Recently I was heading to work, catching a bus with a younger colleague who was new to the business. As we moved down the crowded aisle, a guy – late 30s, maybe early 40s – rose to his feet and looked me in the eye. “Sir, would you like this seat?”

I’ve done that myself, but only for old people. Those who looked old. Frail. In need of a seat. Surely, he’s not speaking to me, I thought, startled and taken aback. A strange mix of embarrassment, reality and the feeling of being called out after years of denial thumped me in the chest.

“No, thanks, I’m all good,” I replied with a feeble smile, lowering my eyes to the floor. My colleague graciously pretended not to notice.

The lyrics of a Beatles classic rippled through my mind: Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?

This is the first time in my 64 years that someone has done this for me. I’ve been blessed with good genes, have worked hard at being fit, eat healthy, reduced my vices and live an ordered lifestyle at a pace that doesn’t feel too different to 20 years ago.

I love popular culture, hip hop instead of Handel, embrace new technology and I’m heading to university shortly to do a Masters degree. My smart watch, which measures the impact of my exercise, heart rate and all sorts of other metabolic metrics, says my physical age is 55. I want to reduce that by another five years.

Is ageing purely physical, as measured by technology like smart watches? Or is it a mindset? Photo / 123RF

I’ve always been conscious of my age, quick to divert conversations about it, tamped down any suggestion of the birthday cake and morning tea at work, never had a birthday party from my 21st to my 60th. I reluctantly caved for the latter, limiting it to a tight group of friends and family.

I was scared and embarrassed of being seen as old, of growing old, of being old. Being old equates to losing capability and the freedom to do what I want, whenever I want, how I want. It means limitations. Giving into time. I don’t want to be judged by age but on capability, quality of contribution and being able to do what I’ve always been able to without physical or cognitive restriction.

As a teenager, I used to do the night shift at the 12-bed rest home my mother owned, getting the old dears onto their commodes, wiping their bottoms and putting them back into bed if they fell out or started to wander. Subconsciously, I think I’ve been in denial about ageing ever since. That will never be me.

Now, it is me.

And it turns out I’m not alone. People in the west are living 30 years longer than they did in 1900 with 75% of us reaching 65 or older creating the longest period of adulthood in history. In New Zealand, the life expectancy of a male is now 81. We’re fitter and stronger than our predecessors helped by better diets, modern medicine and understanding the importance of exercise.

My lifelong resistance to ageing wasn’t just a personal quirk, it reflects something deeper about how men around my era were conditioned to view ourselves. In 2023, American researchers published a paper exploring this connection between masculinity ideals and ageing, confirming what I’ve felt but couldn’t articulate.

Health and fitness have helped people's quality of life.

They found that as men age, they often find themselves grappling with a shifting sense of identity. Many have spent decades measuring themselves by their strength, independence and control, traits deeply tied to traditional views on masculinity. But as bodies slow down and physical resilience fades, the pressure to maintain that image doesn’t disappear.

Instead, it creates an internal conflict. Society prizes youth, and older men can feel an unspoken expectation to prove they’ve still got it, whether through staying fit, working longer, or even subtly hiding signs of ageing. At the same time, the idea of asking for help, whether for health concerns or emotional struggles, can feel like an admission of weakness. The instinct is to tough it out, to downplay any sign that age is catching up.

The problem for men is they’re not that good at self-reflection and self-compassion. This can lead to loneliness and declining wellbeing. That’s not surprising given the boomer generation grew up in a stoic era. Self-worth was linked to career, achievement and productivity and there was a stigma around asking for help.

As they age, many older men avoid discussing their struggles and hesitate to seek help or admit they need connection. Friends and family start to pass away, friendships dwindle, and health concerns go unspoken. All of this speaks loudly to me. I can see now, how I’ve been in through that stage of trying to show I’ve still got it. And, how over the last year or two, I’ve come to accept where I am and can appreciate the lessons I’ve learnt getting here. I feel comfortable with who I am, where I am at and the grey hair.

What’s surprising is that my grudging acceptance of ageing has coincided with an unexpected sense of contentment. Apparently, I’m not imagining this shift. Research by English behavioural economist Andrew Oswald reveals that happiness tends to follow a U-shaped curve. Oswald’s research involved 500,000 people in 72 countries, both developed and undeveloped. He observed similar patterns across the globe and across the sexes.

Across cultures, people report a gradual decline in life satisfaction from their late teens through midlife, bottoming out in their 40s and 50s. Then, something changes. The pressure to prove oneself eases, expectations recalibrate, and happiness levels begin to climb again from the early 60s. Despite physical ageing, older adults often report feeling more content, emotionally stable, and less weighed down by comparison or ambition.

That rings true for me.

Some of that change was unfolding naturally having lost three good friends – younger than me – and three former colleagues over the past couple of years with two other friends fighting cancer. My perspective was also shifted significantly after a car pulled out of a driveway and slammed into me while I was riding my Vespa to work last year. It left me with multiple broken bones, a partially collapsed lung and in hospital for 10 days. Rehab is long and slow, coming up a year. While the physical recovery is challenging, the mental one has also been tough. It has ultimately served as a reality slap – I’m not a young man any more – and I’ve accepted that.

In the old days – my 40s and 50s – the accident and rehab would have made me angry and a little bitter. Now, miles on the clock have shifted my mindset and a calmness has come with that. It is what it is and I’ll deal with it as best I can. I have a pretty good grasp on what I’m good at, reasonable at and bad at. I have dropped the anchor of judgment and my head is clearer. I try as best I can to not sweat the small stuff.

All this has left me wondering at what point would you describe someone as “old”. Is it when someone offers you a seat on the bus? When you get the Gold card and pension? Or is it more fluid than that? This exact question was put to 14,056 middle-aged and older adults in the German ageing survey that follows people born between 1911 and 1974.

Participants answered the question between one and eight times over a 25-year period from 1996, when they were between 40 and 100 years old. The finding, released last year, was that as people get older, they revise the age they consider to be old upwards. This shift may be influenced by increased life expectancy, changes in retirement age and personal health.

Consensus was that 75 was the beginning of “old age”.

There was also an interesting pattern: people consistently push forward their definition of “old age” as they grow older.

A 64-year-old participant typically placed the threshold of old age at around 74, while those who had reached 74 moved the boundary to nearly 77. On average, the perceived starting point of old age crept forward by roughly one year for every four to five years of actual ageing experienced.

These days, when I board the bus, I scan the faces of seated passengers. Not because I’m looking for someone to offer me a seat but because I’m curious about how others might be seeing me. That moment of shock when I was first offered a seat has taken up a lot of headspace. I understand it wasn’t an indictment on being old but simply a bloke with good manners doing a good deed.

If it happened today, I may take the offer up or I might smile genuinely and say: “I appreciate the offer, but I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

Either way, I’ve learnt that what I once feared as the beginning of the end is actually just another beginning.

Chris Mirams lives in Tāmaki Makaurau with his wife Juliet. He is a former journalist and the author of several books and has worked in corporate communications for the last decade.