My Grandchild Used the Word
In one of our recent weekly newsletters, we asked, do you think of yourself as old? And why is that and when did it start? For a previous response, see here. Below is another response. Send your response to writingaboutourgeneration@gmail.com.
The anthem of my generation was “don’t trust anyone over 30.” Well, I hit that milestone 46 years ago. Now 76, I find it a ludicrous notion that I ever mistrusted someone I now consider a “youngster.”
We develop very different perspectives on everything as we grow old. We never think about growing old until we actually do it. The moment I realized I was old was when my youngest grandchild called me “elderly.”
That was last year. Until then, I just thought I was what I had always been: vigorous, enthusiastic, healthy, strong, and capable—in the prime of my life.
Maybe I didn’t want to think of myself as old because Americans treat old people with disrespect. I cannot watch “Saturday Night Live” because the actors are always making fun of old people—we fart, smell, choke on our food, poop our pants, dawdle and forget. We are truly the butt of America’s jokes.
I try hard to keep my looks, but every morning when I look in the mirror, I just see a face that doesn’t belong to me. If I could live with a bag over my head, I might pass for a youthful 60-year-old. But the face says it all.
Heaven forbid I eat something unhealthy; the bags under my eyes look like dark mushrooms blooming after a spring rainstorm. I have learned to wear little makeup, or else I look like Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” Just a touch of blush and some lipstick to make me look alive.
The transparent skin pallor of an old person is real, as are the cold hands and feet. I now understand why old ladies wore shawls—to keep warm, silly! The cold penetrates every bone in my body, and I have Raynaud’s, which turns my fingers white. My grandkids call them my “dead fingers.”
OK, enough of the bad stuff; here’s the good: I love being old.
People do get up on the subway to give me their seat. I have an aged charm that goes with my toned Pilates body, and folks always act so surprised when I tell them my age. People like to hug me; they assume it’s not sexual harassment because they think I am too old for anything sexual.
But let it be known: sex is still a great joy for me, and I am fabulously into it!
People laugh along with me; they think I am a funny old person—“Oh, you are so cute, Melinda.” I have great stories to tell about the “good old days” and nostalgia is in right now. I can be pushy, rude, impatient and even use the “F” word and get away with it. My children just roll their eyes and chalk it up to “mother’s losing It.”
Plus, I have nothing to complain about in the health department except morning low back pain, silent reflux and occasional skips in my memory: “What is her name for Christ’s sake? I have known her for 50 years!”
I know a couple here in Vermont in their 90, and they drive all over the country. They inspire me, and if I can be half as together as they are as I approach my final years, it will be a blessing.
My mom died at 40 and my dad at 57, so I don’t expect to have many years left. That said, every morning when I greet the sun shining through my window, I take a deep breath—wheezing just a little, blowing my nose, slowly rising to meet the floor—and count my blessings that I did not die in my sleep and can live another day to embrace my age with gusto!
