About aging
By Kwak Yong-deok
An elderly man stands before a mirror, staring at his wrinkled form that belies his vibrant mind, and sighs. This is the opening scene from the movie, “Eungyo.”
One weekend in early March, I remember catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror after I had taken a shower. Even though I am not as elderly as the character in “Eungyo,” I thought of that scene. I looked at my aging body, skin starting to sag, and I was almost brought to tears.
When did I get this old? My mind is still immature, but my body is no longer that of the young man I thought I was.
I’m 43! And I believe I am still young at heart. Considering the average life expectancy, I might say being in the forties is young enough to be old, but at the same time old enough to be young.
The stresses of work life and of educating my children have taken their toll. I felt like a battered soldier, my war wounds manifested in wrinkles and a tired body. I needed to recuperate, and I knew instinctively that my old school friends would be the ones to help me do it.
We were all born and raised in the small city of Cheongju, in North Chungcheong province. Our quartet of bosom buddies has always been close, and we’ve kept in touch over the years.
As adults, we each followed different paths in life ― as varied as our personalities: one become a local mechanic, one a central government office worker, another an insurance rep and I worked in the hotel industry.
It took less than a week to plan the trip. It was a miracle, be we all agreed on a date for a one-night, two-day trip to Tongyeong. Why Tongyeong? No reason.
Our last road trip was in the winter of 1990. We had just graduated high school and went down to Busan together. Twenty-three years later, we were ready to head off on our second trip together with just us boys – a dream trip, really.
On the morning of our departure, I received a text message from the friend who is the insurance rep, saying that something had come up and he couldn’t go.
Inside, I was seething. How could he bail on us at the last minute like that? I tried to brush it off, and picked up my friend, the government office worker, in Seoul, and together we drove to Cheongju to pick up our other school friend, the mechanic. It was a rainy day, and the roads of the expressway were slippery, but the three of us finally made it to Tongyeong.
Our first stop was at a seaside restaurant. Majestic views with fresh-caught fish from local waters ― how could it get any better than this? Of course, boys will be boys and copious amounts of alcohol soon followed as we talked and talked through the night.
Yes, it’s not just women who like to gab. And our conversations were animated, charged and therapeutic, too, as we waxed lyrical about our life and woes.
My pugilistic friend, the mechanic, complained about his work. Oppressed by his white collar superiors, he talked about the stress of being a blue collar laborer. In our high school days, he was quite a renowned and feared brawler who settled disagreements with his fists than with his words.
Two decades later, he works tirelessly, doing manual labor for 12 hours a day sometimes, trying to complete the unrealistically heavy tasks assigned to him by his younger middle class bosses.
He does it all without talking back or causing trouble, content on working hard for his own personal reasons. I am proud of him for his restraint and his strong work ethic.
My friend, the central government office worker, also complained about his work, particularly the bureaucratic hierarchical constructs he is forced to comply with.
As he talked, his arms moved around in the air energetically and he used colorful, perhaps even coarse, language. This guy is always the life of the party, but he described his work demeanor as a government worker as refined, reserved, and taciturn. Talk about irony.
He brought up the impending move of his offices to Sejong City – a move that forces him to uproot his family and a move he has no choice but to make. And, despite his comfortable and steady position, he bemoaned the financial rut he was in trying to make ends meet.
He confided in us that his wife had taken on a side job to help pay the bills, especially the educational costs for his three children.
The next day, the trip now over, we berated the friend who didn’t make the trip as we made our way to Cheongju to drop off my mechanic friend. Just as we were calling him some choice names (as only good friends can), the phone rang. He was calling to see how the trip went. When we asked him why he bailed on his best friends, his answer was brief.
“My wife has breast cancer.”
The rest of the four-hour trip back to Seoul was done in silence. There was nothing more to say.
I arrived home a little weary. Whether from all the driving or from the gravity of my friend’s news, I wasn’t sure. My two daughters greeted me at the door and excitedly recounted all the things that happened while I was gone. Such youthful exuberance. It was good to be back.
The writer works at the Millennium Seoul Hilton. He lives in Seoul with his wife and two daughters.