Twenty-Four and Seventy-Four: Two Versions of Me
Today I turned 74.
Now, if you’re 24, that probably sounds ancient. If you’re 74, it sounds suspiciously young. Turning 74 got me thinking about what life looked like when I was 24.
At 24, if a bar in New York City closed at 4 a.m., I considered that a personal challenge. Today, if I’m out at 9:30 p.m., my wife Ellen calls to make sure I haven’t been kidnapped.
At 24, I traveled through Europe with a backpack, a Eurail pass, and about $400 to my name. Somewhere along the way I met two Belgian girls, and for several glorious weeks we traveled together. My biggest problem wasn’t finding a hotel; it was trying not to fall in love with either one of them. The world seemed impossibly new that summer. Every train station was an invitation. Every stranger was a potential friend. Every wrong turn became a story.
At 74, I still travel to Europe. The difference is that now I know what a hotel reservation is. And if the room doesn’t have a private bathroom, I’m not calling it an adventure—I’m calling it grounds for a refund.
At 24, I landed a job as a clerk on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange through a combination of confidence, charm, and outright bluffing. About an hour into my first day, the boss tapped me on the shoulder. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, do you?” “No,” I admitted. He stared at me. “I’ll give you three weeks. Shape up or you’re fired.”
A year later I asked why he hadn’t fired me that first day. He smiled. “Because what you did is exactly what I would have done.”
At 24, I rode a motorcycle through New York traffic. At 74, I no longer ride a motorcycle. Not because I’ve become wiser, but because my wife has.
At 24, I lived in a tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn Heights. One morning, walking home after an all-night adventure, I turned a corner and literally bumped into Norman Mailer. Norman Mailer! One of the most famous writers in America. At 74, I no longer bump into famous authors on the street; I see them at lectures from the back row, usually while wondering whether the parking meter has expired.
And here’s another difference. At 24, I was paying a psychoanalyst in Manhattan to help me figure myself out. At 74, I’m still doing the work—only now I’ve discovered that self-understanding is not a destination. It’s a daily practice.
What strikes me isn’t that my life is smaller today; it’s just different. At 24, I collected experiences; at 74, I collect meaning. At 24, I wanted excitement; at 74, I want connection. At 24, I thought wisdom was knowing the answers; at 74, I’ve learned wisdom is knowing the questions.
And yet, some things haven’t changed. I still love a good story. I still love meeting interesting people. I still believe that around the next corner something unexpected might happen.
The difference is that at 24 I expected adventure to arrive on a motorcycle. At 74, I know it can arrive in a conversation, a friendship, my daughter’s laugh, a book, or a quiet moment when life suddenly makes sense.
When I was 24, I couldn’t imagine being 74. And now that I’m 74, I can honestly say something surprising: I wouldn’t trade places with that young man. Well—maybe for one weekend. Just definitely not the morning after.












