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So, the question lingers like a husband who knows there's only one piece of chocolate cake left and everybody else is already in bed and asleep.
Should I be bothered by the fact that I'm getting older? The answer, as any red-blooded, insecure, over-the-hill American woman knows, is a loud, resounding YES! As the big book of life keeps flipping those pages on me, I
can't help but notice the aging process has affected not only the surface of my carcass, but also the quality of my life. Instead of dancing all night, I now just wish I could sleep through one. Instead of buying clothes to
emphasize my good points, I look for clothes that cover what used to be my good points. When I drop money on the floor, if it's not paper, it can stay there and rot as far as I'm concerned. I no longer take little things
for granted. A jar of pickles, once small change to open, now looms like an alien army and my sworn enemy. Where once I could laugh at the prospect of an unbroken vacuum seal, I now must arm for combat just to eat a lousy pickle.
Small tasks have become soap operas. I can remember moving into a new apartment when I was young and single and getting settled in so fast I had people over for dinner that same night. Now it takes me three days just to
unpack my groceries. And my memory has suffered an equally sad decline into oblivion. Where at one time I committed to memory the words of every song I ever heard and liked from high school right on through the 70s and 80s, I am
now dedicated to remembering the names of people I encounter in stores. Where I read serious books dealing with philosophy, history and classic literature, my brow is now knitted in contemplation of the precise reason I opened the
refrigerator. Life's mystery used to the "why and how" of the universe, now it's the "where" of my car keys. Yes, life has chugged along, but even though the evidence doesn't completely support my position, I prefer to
think I've held up pretty darn good. I climb out of bed ready to take on the world, or at least hold it hostage for a few hours, believing that in the middle-aged division of life's lottery, while I may not have won a million
dollars, I'm also not in some gutter drinking Mad-Dog 20-20. I like to think I am much too intelligent and confident a person to let a few wrinkles get me down and my mirror, lit with rosy pink bulbs, tells me I certainly look
better than a lot of other people do at my age. That's an edge I'm going to enjoy when I go to my next high school reunion. Yes, I feel good, as James Brown likes to say. So good that I took my children to a fast food place
they like and the sweet-smiling teenager at the cash register took my order and then gave me a discount on my drink, which I thought was pretty darned nice of him. In the right light, that kid probably would have flirted with me!
But when I sat down and looked at my ticket, I realized he had given me the senior citizens discount, which the restaurant kindly bestows on customers who are 60 and over.
As I said, there are days when I get up, ready for a good rest home. |
