aging – Page 3 – The View from a Drawbridge

“Friends Make the Best Lovers.”

A friend of mine, in her late 70’s, said that to me the other day. My first inward reaction was shock. I mean… she’s old. She shouldn’t be thinking like that!

But the older I get, the more I realize what a crazy notion that is. Why do we think that age turns one into some sort of sexually sterile creature? Even if we become isolated and untouched, that does not negate the fact that, simply by dint of life experience, we have been around the block a time or two. We have memories. We have triumphs and regrets. We are still biological beings.

I strongly suspect that the things I will find most frustrating about aging won’t be the aches and pains, but will be the fact that I’ll most likely be taken less and less seriously, to the point of becoming nearly invisible to most people. That’s a shame, because I’d like to think that I’m rather fun to be around. The slower you walk, the more life seems to pass you by, if you let it.

But don’t forget that for every year someone lives, they’ve accumulated more history. Of course they’ll have stories to tell. And some of them might just be bawdy. I certainly hope so.

[Image credit: twtrland.com]

To be honest, I fear getting dementia much more than I fear death. To lose my memories, the only things in life that are uniquely mine, is a terrifying prospect. Losing myself and yet leaving my body behind is the stuff of nightmares.

This situation also reminded me of one of the last conversations I had with my mother. In the very end stages of her cancer she was pretty zonked on pain medication. She’d have good days and bad days. One day she seemed to be having a very good day, and I said as much. She said, “I am! My daughter Barb is meeting me for lunch!” When I hung up the phone, I burst into tears, because she was in Virginia and I was in Florida, so I knew I’d be standing her up. I sort of hoped her confusion was enough so that she wouldn’t remember to be disappointed. It’s hard when someone leaves you before their body does.

So I’ll call my aunt back in two weeks and hope for the best. But I’ll be scared. Whether she knows me or not, I’ll tell her I love her. Because everyone should know they’re loved, even if they don’t know by whom.

[Image credit: draggarwal.org]

How “Little Mary Sunshine” Looks from the Darkside

A friend of mine recently posted a meme on her Facebook page that said “Slow progress is better than no progress.” My first thought was, “Great. That would be comforting if I were making slow progress.” The fact is, I have felt as though I haven’t moved forward in years. If anything, I’ve been sliding backward.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. Quit my job, sold my house, went back to school. Graduated with honors. Applied for hundreds and hundreds and HUNDREDS of jobs. Even got one. It lasted two whole days. Fortunately my old job was still waiting for me. Of course, now I have twice as many expenses, so this job isn’t sustaining me like it once did.

When someone tells me I need to get a positive attitude I want to punch him in the throat. If you get an electric shock every time you push a button, it’s SANE to not want to push that button anymore. So imagine what it feels like when someone tells you that you should push that button with enthusiasm. Yay team!

And then there are those who will criticize you for still being picky. Don’t want an emotionally abusive guy who constantly shouts at you in your life anymore? “Why not? He’s a guy. You’d be less lonely”. Or, “Oh, look! There are job openings for prison guards. You could do that.” Yes, because I want to be surrounded by people who want to kill me every day. “But you’d be making more money…”

The problem is, what’s the effing alternative? Doing nothing? Yeah, that’ll get you somewhere. Self-sabotage? I’m quite adept at that. I cover myself with fat to keep people at a distance. I’m sure my constant depression and exhaustion radiates out of me like the cry for help that it often is. I wouldn’t hire me or date me either. What a relief. No surprises this way.

A counselor recently told me that failure is a form of success, because you learn something from it. I looked at her and thought, “Does this woman sniff laughing gas or what? Can she really BE that deluded?” Yes, I bring failures on myself, but the economy, the fact that I’m aging, and the fact that employers and men can afford to be more discerning these days because they have plenty of prospects doesn’t help either. Failure isn’t success. Failure is just one more volt that that surges through the electric button that you’re expected to push.

Another friend says I need to figure out what’s holding me back. I KNOW what’s holding me back. Fear of rejection. I have been electrocuted by that button so many freakin’ times my hair is starting to smoke and I’m developing a nervous tick. If I don’t apply for that job, I don’t have to be reminded that they don’t think I’m good enough. If I eat enough cookies, when a guy isn’t interested I can blame it on the fat, not on me.

Self-sabotage may as well be self-mutilation. It’s the emotional equivalent of cutting my thighs with a razor blade. So now I guess the trick is to figure out how to keep pushing that button with a smile on my face. Because that will feel soooo much better.

But in the mean time, kindly stop telling me to let a smile be my umbrella, would you?

This is Who I Am

My back is turned to you as I sit on the beach, the mountain cove curling to the north and south of me, as if to sweep me up in an embrace. I’m gazing down at my tanned feet and my painted toe nails encrusted with wet sand. My red dress is buffeted by the warm breeze and my thick black braid is a reassuring weight against my spine. I’m happy, young, thin, self-confident, content. I’m even vegetarian.

Unfortunately, this is not the person who gazes back at me when I look in the mirror. In fact, not one aspect of that description fits me, from the braid to the tan and painted toes. Looking back at me is someone who always comes as a bit of a shock. I don’t look like me. I never have.

It’s hard to reconcile this dichotomy, this contradiction, this, let’s face it, crashing disappointment. And I’ve felt this way my entire life. My corporeal being cannot compete with me. I never age. I wear red. I feel right.

I feel awkward about this dichotomy, but I really don’t know why. It’s not as if people are aware of it. It’s a rare person who takes the time to see who you really are. People generally make snap judgments based on outward appearances. The older I get, the more invisible I seem to become to those around me. Actually that’s a comfort, because it makes it easier for me to be who I really am.

As long as I don’t look in the mirror.

[Image Credit: elizabethhubbellstudio.com]

Tag: aging

Own Your Fifty

Ever since I entered my 50’s I’ve had many people say to me, “Don’t worry, fifty is the new thirty.” As if I needed comforting or something. As if it is preferable to live in a state of denial.

Here’s the thing (yes, yes, there’s always a thing): I don’t want to be thirty. I like myself a lot more now than I did then. As a matter of fact, if I were to meet the me of 20 years ago, I’d probably give her a stern lecture about some of the bonehead decisions she is about to make.

I’m glad I won’t be around for the riots over water, and won’t have to watch the ever-increasing population fight over the ever-shrinking coastlines. I’d really rather not experience the mega-storms. I’d prefer to skip the time when most bugs are resistant to antibiotics.

My advice to you is to own your age. Embrace it. Don’t look at aging as a source of shame, but rather as an accumulation of knowledge and life experience. That’s something to be proud of.

The fact is, we all have an expiration date. When I was 30, that thought scared me. Now, it’s kind of comforting, and I’m okay with it. I don’t mind playing my part in a much bigger picture. In fact, that’s exactly what I want to do.

Life Begins at 50

I’ve spent much of my life fearing the passage of time. I wasn’t obsessed with the topic, but I didn’t want to get older, that was for sure. What a waste of energy that fear was.

First of all, aging is inevitable. All the plastic surgery and vitamins and exercise in the world isn’t going to stop it. We all have an expiration date. (And thank goodness for that! The planet is crowded enough.)

But here’s what kind of took me by surprise: I like myself a lot more than I did at 19. Granted, I wouldn’t mind having my 19-year-old body back, but if I had to be the person I was at 19 to achieve that goal, I’d turn down the offer.

Bring it on!

The Laws of Attraction

Just a few minutes ago I saw a gorgeous man, and I thought, “Yummy.” But then came the inevitable realization that I’m old enough to be his mother. I guess I always assumed that as I aged, my taste in men would age, too. Well… yes and no.

In terms of pure physical attraction, is it all that unusual that someone who is healthy and fit would appeal to me? Are you kidding? An athletic 25 year old is pure eye candy, and that feeds my spirit.

That’s because the older you get, the more you discover that attraction goes way beyond the physical. It’s a rare 25 year old who would have enough life experience to mentally stimulate me. Our frames of reference wouldn’t even be hanging in the same building, let alone on the same wall.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop thinking, “Yummy” when I see those 25 year olds. I may be old and fat, but I’m not dead.

Blogheimers

If you’ve been in a long-term relationship, you’re probably well-versed in your partner’s stories. You’ve heard them all before. All you have to hear is, “That reminds me of the time when…” and you inwardly groan.

Now imagine writing a daily blog for years on end. After a while you forget which stories you’ve told. Sometimes before I start on a topic, I actually do a search of my own blog to make sure I haven’t covered it before.

I don’t suppose it matters, really. I have only a handful of longstanding faithful followers, and even with them, for some crazy reason, I am not the center of their universe. I could probably get away with a certain level of duplication.

Even so, I don’t know which would mortify me more: someone rolling his or her eyes and saying, “Yeah, yeah, you already told us that,” or someone rolling his or her eyes and saying, “The last time you talked about this subject you had a completely different opinion.”

As with the aging process, the older my blog gets, the more I will risk suffering from “blogheimers”. All I can do is apologize in advance. Because I might forget to do so later.

No Joy in Plumpville

I do derive a great deal of comfort from the fact that the aging process will bite that girl in the butt sooner or later. It’s the great equalizer. Karma in the form of cellulite.

Good Old Dog

Have you ever noticed that dogs don’t slowly age? The transition always seems to be startlingly abrupt. One day they’re zooming around the yard, chasing squirrels, and the next day it’s as if they’ve been beaten with the aging stick overnight.

I gazed at him last night in the darkness of my bedroom. He was ensconced on the pillow next to mine, tucked in all cozy and warm, snoring gently. How I treasure him. I vowed that I will cuddle with him even more these days, and I whispered into his ear, “Don’t leave me yet, my friend.”