I am not necessarily put off by the signs of aging that I see in myself. I do not mind the gray hair, or the more careful way I approach stairs. I do not mind having current cultural references sweep uncomprehendingly by me. I do not mind taking a moment to reach around in my mind for a name or an event that might have popped up with no trouble a few years ago. I do not mind that I am driven rather than being behind the wheel on occasion. I do not mind being called Grammy.
But there are things I do mind, and by and large they are very silly, but still in my mind they scream old age. And I resist them. It is probably no surprise that I wear glasses, at least I wear them when I can find them. I have two pairs in the hopes that scattered about the house I may be able to find one. I have left the darn things in restaurants, at my daughters' houses, in stores, and tucked neatly between the seats in my car. There is an obvious solution to this problem, but not one that I am willing to embrace. If I just put those spectacles on a chain around my neck they would always be with me. But I am not going to do it. That chain around the neck represents a cantankerous, old grouch to me, and no matter how stylish that chain might be I am not going to wear it. So here I am again, looking for those glasses I suspect I left on the table at the restaurant after reading the menu.
The next example is the water exercise classes at my local gym. I used to swim laps and while doing so I would look over at those leaping and hopping to music in the pool. I swore to myself that I would never do that. It represented giving up to me. But now lap swimming is a thing of the past, and I teeter on the edge of joining one of those classes which would be very good for me. As a symbol of something I never wanted to be, I have yet to don my swimsuit and try one. While there is no hope for the chain, there is a hope I will get over this, and get back in the pool.
I have never been cute, being too practical and perhaps too staid for that. And now that I am eighty, why do I suddenly see portrayals everywhere of old age being a season of cuteness. There is nothing precious about it, and I will not pretend that there is. In fact, it is a lot of hard work that those not in our shoes may not understand. For we at this stage of our lives are figuring out how to manage the complexities of a shrinking world. This is not a cute activity.
Perhaps what I am really saying is that I do not want to be put in an old age box, whatever that box may be. But in turn I need to recognize that I cannot put anyone else in a box either, based merely on their outward appearance or on their actions. To wake up every day and look compassionately into the hearts of the people around us would erase age and time and space. It would change the world, and give those of us who may be slowing down unlimited, boundless employment.