My birthday is in a few days. I try not to get too hung up on age. Complaining about it is like complaining about the weather — can’t do a thing to change it. Yet, one thing I knew I’d never do is talk about age-related foibles with my friends. Until I did.
Not long ago, my husband and I were having breakfast in a restaurant and happened to be seated next to a table of “men of a certain age.” I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but because three of these gentlemen were shouting so the two wearing hearing aids could hear them, I inadvertently gleaned a heap of information about bum elbows, skin tags, and constipation.
Though I loved these men’s camaraderie, puns, and deep dive into flatulence, I swore right then and there that when my friends and I reached their age, we wouldn’t sit in a diner discussing aliments. And in a way, I did make good on that promise. My friends and I didn’t start sharing health-related issues when we reached these gentlemen’s ages. We’re sharing them now, and we’re at least 20 years younger.
Once you start down this road, it’s hard to turn back. I think this in part because pain, fallen arches, and forgetfulness take us by surprise. It’s disconcerting to discover a white, goatlike hair sprouting from your chin, and wonder just how long this free-spirited strand has been dancing in the wind.
For many of us, our younger days consisted of Herculean-level multitasking –– making dinner, working, scheduling appointments, cleaning up cat vomit, providing free transportation, and unloading groceries while breastfeeding. As we age, it becomes increasingly more challenging to function as efficiently as we once did. Suddenly, we’re adding Metamucil to our gin and tonics, buying multiple heating pads, and helplessly watching as our jawline begins to resemble a cow udder.
I’m no expert, but I think the trick to aging gracefully is radical acceptance. Facelifts only fool people for a while. Once you start wearing blue Crocs with striped socks, and using a walker to get from your couch to your recliner, you’re not really fooling anyone –– least of all yourself.
For me, there is relief in getting older. Unlike when my jawline and buttocks were firmer, I’ve become nearly invisible. I can walk down the street and not hear, “Hey, baby, can I drink your bathwater?” screamed at me by men in cars. If this question were posed to me now, my response would be, “I guess so, but it’s going to taste like Epsom salt.”
There are other benefits to aging. Yeah, we’re more vulnerable in some ways, but we’re also braver, mouthier, and bounce back from disappointment more quickly. We’ve experienced decades of losses, broken bones, and stupid decisions, and come to accept the fact that our phones are going to upgrade without our consent, all of which makes the phrase “This too shall pass” a little easier to swallow.
Aging doesn’t mean we stop trying new things. It means we stop trying to do things that no longer serve us. Maturing allows us to take stock of all we’ve done, and feel proud of our achievements (except for maybe that one time involving a bong). And because we’re braver, if there’s something we wished we’d done, we might still have time to do it. I mean, there are 87-year-old women skydiving! Bravo to them for hurling their osteoporosis-laden selves out of an airplane. I wouldn’t. I’m too scared.
Now, all this being said, I’m not going to lie: My back is killing me right now, and I can’t tell if I’m hungry or experiencing a bout of GERD. I’ll also admit that this last summer, I felt more than a little jealous of my young neighbor lying peacefully in his hammock. All I could think was, How did he get in it? Is he comfortable? There’s no back support! Gosh, he looks so flexible. I bet he can squat down and grab a 30-pound box of cat litter from the bottom shelf in the store and stand right back up without requiring an ambulance. And how in the world can he be old enough to own a house?
