Someone (who shall remain nameless) recently reminded me that I’m not getting older – I have arrived. Then there are the folks who dole out left-handed compliments like, “you’re not that old” or “you look good for your age”, which always make me think of my dad who would say things about someone’s appearance, age, or demeanor, that I believe are too impolite to write down. Of course he was joking…I’m pretty sure he was joking.
And there are plenty of jokes about aging. My current favorites are: “You can cross off dying young from your list of things to worry about” and “Wow! They grow old so fast. And by ‘they’, I mean you”. I can’t promise I haven’t shared those, in a loving way, with some of my old (and dear) friends. Maybe I’m more like my dad than I think. Oh, well…
It also seems that my Medicare Supplement Provider warns me constantly of the dangers of my advanced age. Almost daily I receive IMPORTANT information about testing, drug therapies, and other preventable maladies or treatments that I should investigate, take part in or avoid depending on the situation, the need or the risks. And when I visit my primary care physician, I’m quizzed about slippery throw rugs, staircases and other potential household hazards that people my age apparently should avoid.
For most of my life, ignorance, avoidance, and denial have served me well. I intend to approach my golden years in this same manner. I refuse to live in fear. Being in my seventies does not necessarily imply senility. I’m still functional. I’m still literate. I can actually walk and chew gum at the same time (the knee does pain me, and the gum must be sugarless, but that’s beside the point). Lately I have been bombarded on social media with young people who are embracing self-care. I’m embracing “que sera, sera“. I may be old, but I’m not done. I refuse to sit down and be quiet. I still have a few versus to sing. And I’m counting on some other old-timers to join in my chorus.
Author Anne Lamott describes aging as a process that brings clarity, gentleness, acceptance, and a shedding of perfectionism, emphasizing love, service, humor, and the preciousness of life as central themes.
I don’t know about the clarity part, but I’m trying to be gentler and more accepting. And I gave up perfectionism a while back. So, bring on the love, service, and humor. Because life is precious.
Now that I’m older, I do have more time for service. I’m able to volunteer for organizations and causes that are dear to me. I have the luxury of more time for prayer. I can hold a hand, dry a tear, offer my shoulder, or carry the load for another. There is less hurry and even less worry. Again – “que sera, sera“.
As my own parents aged, I was reminded many times of my impatience. This poem both shames me and gives me hope that someday my children will slow down when I need them to.
Until then, I will keep on keeping on, and they can try to keep up, as they marvel at how witty, spry, and involved I am at my advanced age. A young person asked me not long ago why I walk so fast. I told him that I don’t have as much time as he does to get things done.
Here’s to many more years of defying the odds and my Medicare Supplement Provider.
Peace,
Denis
I still vividly remember our wedding day and my bride walking down the aisle. It felt surreal. The sunlight was streaming through the windows and the light seemed to be emanating from her. I believe I saw my future in her beautiful green eyes at that very moment. That was 44 years ago and the light still shines. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in this life, but the one thing I did right was on January 4, 1975 when I said, “I do.”
Life hasn’t always been easy but the good times outweigh the bad. The laughter drowns out the tears. And sometimes hanging on means holding on. Holding on to one another. Never letting go. Remembering in our darkest hours that our love will survive. If all is lost, our perfect love can still be found.
But somehow I kind of miss the crap-shoot of the old days. The only choices we had were: wallet size, 5 x 7, or 8 x 10. The mug was the same on all. You didn’t know until “SCHOOL PICTURE DELIVERY DAY” if you had kept your eyes open or if you were smiling or if your hair was sticking up or if you were missing teeth or if that black eye or fat lip was noticeable.
This weekend was my 45th high school class reunion and I felt blessed to be very much in the moment. Of course we reminisced about school days long ago but mostly I met my old friends where they are today. Some married high school sweethearts. Many of us are grandparents now. Some have had amazing careers. Some have found great fortune. Some have had more than their share of heartache. But for a brief shining moment we were the NEW AND IMPROVED class of 1973 in 2018. An updated version – free of adolescent angst. We weren’t the jocks or geeks or cheerleaders or rebels anymore. We were just old friends sharing a moment in time. The wrinkles and gray hair and extra pounds seemed to magically disappear as we embraced one another. We shared laughter and rekindled friendships. The familiar faces and warm conversations made me feel as though I had just graduated and turned right around and walked back through the door.
My son Blake tells me that he’s pretty sure we are all one consciousness. The universe experiencing itself; a pulse experienced through different hardware. He believes that unconditional love is the answer but what is the question?
Growing up with a mother who is half French meant that we were treated to dessert with every meal – cakes, pies, cream puffs, cookies, brownies, puddings, whether it was deserved or not. What lucky kids we were! Sweet, rich, delicious, fattening desserts were just part of our life. Eating dinner (or lunch) was really just an exercise in getting to the reward of dessert. It wasn’t until I was nearly grown before I realized that our family was unique. Sadly not everyone had homemade desserts with each and every meal. Ever sadder, some folks didn’t even have store-bought dessert! Why not??? I still can’t understand nor explain that anomaly.
