More About Getting Older

The beauty of maturity

It's a truism to say that the years whiz by--they do--but, as well, I feel as if various times in my life (my college years, my married years) were lifetimes away.  So much time has elapsed that I barely feel connected to The Younger Me.  Sometimes, reminiscing, I think, Did I Do That? Was I There Then?  Did I See That?   So what is this Getting Older business about?  Well, of course, it's whatever we want to make of it.

I recently read an amusing novel, No, I Don't Want to Join a Book Club:  Diary of a 60th Year by Virginia Ironside.  As she wrote, "The thing is:  I don't want to join a book club to keep young and stimulated.  I don't want to be young and stimulated anymore.  There seems to be a common line that runs, 'If you're old, you've got to stay mentally active, physically alive, ever fascinated by life.'  But I say, Why?  I've done fascinated, I've done curious.  I want to wind down.  I want to have the blissful relief of not being interested."  Or, how about this:  not being interested in the things one knows one isn't interested in.  One needn't go bicycling across Mongolia at 80 or paragliding at 90.  She went on to conclude:  "Is there actually something wrong these days with the word 'old'?  I wonder."  And:  "...not using the word 'old' seems as coy and ludicrous as Victorians putting skirts on their piano legs because they felt so uncomfortable at the sight of them." (Of course, the heroine didn't actually wind down all that much and did continue doing interesting things.)

We do hear the euphemisms.  The autumn of one's life.  The golden years. The twilight years.  I don't mind calling myself old, older.  I don't like the term "senior."  I was a senior in high school, in college, but now I'm an oldster, not a youngster.  And I give fair warning:  if anyone so much as dares to call me so-many-years-young, I'll whop 'em with my handbag.

We aren't supposed to call ourselves old because that implies we're giving in and letting age take over.  Well, golly gee whiz,  isn't age taking over?  I'm not superwoman.  I'm not now 74 without my blemishes, my wrinkles.  I don't dishonor my body so much as to denigrate my old-person beauty marks.  I remember once in Santa Fe going to a gallery filled with photos of nude women between the ages of 50 and 70.  There were the appendectomy and Caesarian scars, the flabby thighs, cellulite, and droopy upper arms.  The men who came were totally turned off.  We women were enthralled:  someone dared to show what we really looked like ... in all our glory! 

Speaking to a beautiful older women, a TV type once asked, "What is the best and worst of becoming older?"  I didn't stick around for the answer.  But I should think becoming invisible or being tired or no longer wanting to do some things or losing resiliency might be among the worst.  Certainly, losing one's life's companion.  Being wiser would be among the best as would having a lot of memories.  Looking back at the wealth of people one has loved would be top-notch.  Having life experience.  Having had a chance to test one's thoughts, wishes.  Being a participant in history.  Knowing that people are more important than things.  Understanding one's ability to create one's life.  Recognizing and letting go of what no longer serves.

And so it goes.  By the way, speaking of book clubs, I love mine!


(Thank you, K, for your sunflower photo.)