Our dirty little secret

‍ ‍There’s so much that young people don’t realize about older folks—I know I didn’t. The obvious physical stuff about how much harder everything is in your 70s and how many body parts hurt on a given day should be foreseeable. The real secret is much more subtle: deep down most of us don’t really think we’re old.

      My parents’ generation, who came of age during the Great Depression and a world war, were old before their time. They’d often lost a parent or sibling at a young age or buried a child from diseases that are now largely eradicated. Little wonder that they embraced, or at least accepted, being old.

      We boomers are different. It hit me just recently that young people probably just assume we know we’re old.

      But I think people our age (let’s say 65 and up) are basically the same folks we were ten or twenty years ago. “Older people” still like the same music (okay, mostly from the 60s and 70s), laugh at the same jokes, think about sex, enjoy spending time with people they love.

      My friends and I often self-consciously make jokes about our being old—probably because we really don’t believe it.

      Yes, intellectually, we know we’re older—or even old. But that’s not the same thing. Sometimes, it takes me a while to realize that the nice guy helping me in the train station isn’t necessarily just being nice in general, he’s probably being nice to an old lady. (As I typed those words, I wanted to say old woman and had to force myself to type old lady.)

      I mean, I don’t dress like an old lady. Much of the year I live in jeans and t-shirts and sneakers. And I have had times—this is embarrassing to admit—when, walking past rowdy-looking young guys, I almost expected to hear an obnoxious catcall. So, yes, in my head even if I know I’m not in my twenties, I must still think I’m just middle-aged. In fact, I’ve long thought that if you woke me up in the middle of the night and asked my age, I’d probably say 58.

      Actually, I once did that and it wasn’t even the middle of the night.

      I was in my mid-sixties at the time and was waiting in line for a flu shot at work. When I got to the front to be checked in, the screener asked my age and I immediately said 58. Then I caught myself and said “Oh no, that’s wrong.” I’m sure she thought I’d just had a birthday and was about to say 59. Instead, I began giggling, saying “It’s not even close!” I had a good laugh, and it took me a while to compose myself enough to tell her I was 65.

      When my dad, who lived to be 94, was asked in his final years with dementia, how old he was, he’d usually say 73, never more than 78. I think that reflected his awareness that he was old but surely not that old.

      But some things don’t change. Just as when I was younger, I don’t want to be patronized, called “adorable” when my husband and I hold hands in public, ignored, or called “sweetie” by a stranger.

      That said, I do readily acknowledge one stereotype that is grounded in absolute truth: I do not like to stay up late.

      A version of this story first appeared in Crow’s Feet: Life As We Age, a Medium publication. See it here.