On the corner of two busy roads in Tianjin stands my first place of residence in China. At the time, the apartment building's glistening white tiles made it look like a jewel. Smartly dressed security guards met everyone that entered with an energetic salute and a smile. The parking lot smelled of asphalt and was neatly divided into freshly painted parking spaces. The interior courtyard had a newly-planted garden with rows of promising saplings surrounded by bright, green grass. It all looked very nice.

On a recent visit to the same complex, though, I discovered it doesn't look so nice any more. The white tiles are now more gray than white, with some missing, exposing the cracked concrete beneath. The security guards seem to devote more of their time to chasing rats with brooms than saluting people with a smile. The parking spaces are faded and the asphalt is slick with engine oil. The trees in the courtyard have grown but they are covered with a thick layer of dust, while all the grass is gone.

I was shocked. The whole complex couldn't have been more than 10 years old, but it looked more like 50. The building had aged so fast it reminded me of progeria.

Progeria, which comes from the Greek word "progeros" meaning prematurely old, is a rare congenital condition that causes sufferers to age at an abnormally rapid pace. Most die by the age of 13 with bodies frailer than an octogenarian.

It seems a lot of buildings in Beijing are stricken with a case of architectural progeria. Like the apartment buildings that line the east side of Zhongguancun Street, just south of Haidian's famous computer market. They can't be more than 30 years old but they look rotten compared to glowing lights of newer buildings.

I rented an apartment at another five-story housing complex near the university I teach at, about 18 months ago. The blocks were painted dark gray and looked ancient. The stairway was damp and smelled like urine mixed with cooking oil, while the steps were cracked and the walls covered with numbers advertising various repairmen.

The inside of the apartment was remodeled so it wasn't that bad, but you could tell from the piping the place was old. "So, is this building from the early 1900s?" I asked the owner. "No, no, no," he replied firmly, "It was built in the late 60s."

The question is: why do so many buildings in Beijing and other big cities seem to age so quickly? Part of the answer may lie in what Chen Huai, director of policy and Research at the Ministry of Housing and Urban-Rural Development said last summer.

"Buildings constructed before 1949 have long passed their designed lifespan of 50 years," he said. "Many of those built between 1949 and 1979, for historical reasons, were essentially makeshift and met basic needs for housing during a difficult time but were not meant to be used for the longterm.

"Given China's fast economic development and pace of urbanization, houses built between 1979 and 1999 cannot meet the demands of modern living, either because of limited space or a lack of supporting facilities. Only those homes built after 1999 are likely to be preserved in the longer term."

Just like human sufferers of the disease, apartment buildings with architectural progeria are difficult to cure.

In places near Suzhoujie Subway Station and along Chaoyang Beilu, many of these buildings have been demolished or are in the process of being ripped down.

I just hope the mass of complexes and office buildings that seem to sprout daily can learn from the mistakes of the past.