Twenty-Four and Seventy-Four: Two Versions of Me
Today I turned 74.
Now, if youâre 24, that probably sounds ancient. If youâre 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 Iâm out at 9:30 p.m., my wife Ellen calls to make sure I havenât 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 wasnât 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 doesnât have a private bathroom, Iâm not calling it an adventureâIâm 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. âYou donât know what the hell youâre doing, do you?â âNo,â I admitted. He stared at me. âIâll give you three weeks. Shape up or youâre fired.â
A year later I asked why he hadnât fired me that first day. He smiled. âBecause what you did is exactly what I would have done.â
At 24, I rode a motorcycle through New York traffic. At 74, I no longer ride a motorcycle. Not because Iâve 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 hereâs another difference. At 24, I was paying a psychoanalyst in Manhattan to help me figure myself out. At 74, Iâm still doing the workâonly now Iâve discovered that self-understanding is not a destination. Itâs a daily practice.
What strikes me isnât that my life is smaller today; itâs 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, Iâve learned wisdom is knowing the questions.
And yet, some things havenât 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 daughterâs laugh, a book, or a quiet moment when life suddenly makes sense.
When I was 24, I couldnât imagine being 74. And now that Iâm 74, I can honestly say something surprising: I wouldnât trade places with that young man. Wellâmaybe for one weekend. Just definitely not the morning after.









