Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
There is a landmark birthday coming up
for me this week and, unlike my reaction at other landmark birthdays
- 65, say, or 40 - the number is bothering me. I will be 70 and I
identify that number as definitely old. Real old age. This is not
making me happy: rather, it is making me grumpy, lethargic and
disenchanted with all of the things I usually enjoy and plan for.
I am not sure why reaching this age is
such a big deal for me. Possibly there is an echo from the fact that
both my mother, her younger sister and my beloved sister-in-law were
all fragile and unwell by that age. Possibly it's the
'three-score-and-ten' identifying line. Certainly the belief that
this length is the allotted span of a life was part of the things I
was taught as a child. Women acted old at seventy in the fifties.
They dressed the part and tailored their activities to fit. When I
was twelve my mother was a slim, fit 45 who played tennis, ran and
was vigorously interested in everything. My grandmother was a small
creature bundled in black who had no waist, no teeth, no stamina and
no interest in much that I could see except tea and gossip. She was
68. In fairness, my grandfather died that year but my grandmother
never recovered, never returned to any of the interests and skills I
remember her having when I was a little girl, although she lived to
be 93.
The boomer culture has changed that
expectation and the image of seniors - we now have 'golden years' and
'zoomers' (!) and slim, fit white-haired couples on beaches, on golf
courses and in Viagra advertisements, wrinkles airbrushed and mouths
full of expensive implants. Frankly, I have been annoyed by the
boomers and their culture all my life and see no reason to buy into
the fantasy now. Being old is a fact, it comes to us all and no
tummy-tuck, supplement or regime will prevent it. Certainly it comes
at different ages and in different ways - I also had an aunt who,
well preserved and well-corseted, played golf into her eighties, as
well as a mother-in-law who was active and interested well past that
age and who just had her 95th birthday.
I don't want to follow any of these
examples, not the fifties' assumptions nor the sixties'
never-grow-old euphoria. I would like to age 'gracefully', certainly.
Who wouldn't. I have found that living through my sixties is like
living in a 'heritage' home, rather than a new one. It takes a lot of
upkeep and is certainly not provided with the latest and best wiring
and insulation. But it can have grace and character, if you put the
work and thought into it. That's the problem, though, as I think
about it. I have to think about it. There is no part of me, external
or internal, that remains low maintenance. From the thin white hair
to the problem toe nails, the upkeep is a lot of work. Boring,
unrewarding work that takes a lot of time. Alas for the fleeting joys
of youth - or even middle age.
That's four paragraphs of whining and
so, enough of that! I should be outside fertilizing lilies and
retrieving topsoil for a new perennial bed. I should be working on
this week's photo challenge, which is 'wind' with either a short or
long 'i' according to glorious leader. I should maybe clean the
kitchen counter, make the bed, put a load of laundry in, get on with
the program. I need library books, the freezer needs organizing, the
light-weight clothes, ditto. And I do not have to do all of this
after eight hours of being gainfully employed. Nor am I full time
custodian of either kid or dog. And I have my teeth, the use of all
my limbs and a brain that can still be stimulated into something
resembling intelligence by enough coffee.
And I have one chocolate truffle left
in the box that the Easter Bunny (aka JG) left on my bedside table.
So, I am going to be 70 in only a few days. Too bad, but the
alternative is not attractive either.
