The most telling sign of aging has become the degree of discomfort I am willing to put up with during travel.
A dear friend makes his home in the Andes in Peru, and recently returned from a week-long trek at 17,000 feet of altitude. During his trip, he exceeded the height of Everest base camp at times.
We spoke on a tenuous cellular connection during his drive back home, and he mentioned that I was one of perhaps two people he'd consider taking this type of trip with in the future. He meant it as a compliment (and I received it as intended) - but I confessed to him that my days of looking to spend time in punishing cold were behind me.
He thought it over - and reluctantly realized that he might not seek out this type of travel going forward. The last time he'd made this particular trek was decades ago, with his father. In fact, he was precisely the age that his father had been when they'd made the pilgrimage together that first time.
He had fond memories, but resolved to call his dad and ask him: had he felt as uncomfortable as my friend felt on this attempt? Did he accept his pain as the price of spending meaningful time in an activity his son felt enthusiastic about pursuing? Or was his father just in better shape then than my friend was in now?
This friend and I have a history - a decade ago, along with the third in our trio, we committed to a long and memorable weekend taking a puddle jumper plane to a helicopter that airlifted us down to whitewater raft the Grand Canyon with a tour group.
Being a sucker for a discount, I persuaded the others to take the trip in the shoulder season for the $100 discount that was dangled irresistibly by the river running company for taking the trip in May instead of June.
What a difference a couple of weeks make. It snowed at the rim of the canyon during our stay, and the cold was the most striking feature of the trip. Rafting trips are wet. Cold to freezing and wet are not an ideal combination. Despite packing layers of gear, we'd planned for hot summer rather than chill spring weather.
We enjoyed the scenery, company, and cowboy coffee immensely. My friend lent his gear to the unwitting Brazilian tourist who thought a string bikini was sufficient for a weekend of rafting ("I bring extra gear because there's always a Brazilian on trips like these," said my friend, an experienced tour guide).
We froze our butts off.
I returned home and stood for a half hour under a steaming hot shower as I told my wife about our boys' weekend, explaining that this was the most I had ever paid to feel uncomfortable.
I remain a dirtbag at heart.
The greatest difference between then and now is that where I formerly spent more funds to reach distant places and then accepted levels of discomfort on arrival, I'm now willing to pony up a little more on ensuring the destination meets threshold levels of comfort.
I'll spend on the airbnb instead of the dorm hostel.
I've gone soft, but I've learned to reframe my new frailty as a sign of my good fortune.
It comes with a) living long enough to sustain the physical wear and tear, and hence feel greater discomfort because more body parts hurt at the end of the day, and b) being in the fortunate financial position to splurge a little more to let them hurt less.
Not too shabby.