How Do We Know We're Getting Old?
by Maggie Van Ostrand
I went to the corner store to get a paper and there was a really handsome young guy behind the counter, a cross between Harrison Ford and Brad Pitt. I couldn't wait to get to the front of the line to talk to him but there was an old man with a walker in front of me, shuffling along, taking his time.
I started to get an attitude toward the old man for just being there. Didn't he know I had a mission?
Just then the stereo in the store played "Wild Horses" by the Rolling Stones so I started singing along. The old man turned to me and said "Aahh ..There's nothing like the Stones first thing in the morning."
I suddenly realized I had a much better chance with the old man than I did with the hunk behind the counter. This knowledge was a real egoblaster.
I didn't know I was old. I don't feel old.
How do we know we're getting old?
How will we know when we begin to deteriorate? Will we have to pluck chin hairs? Will we have cold and knobby knees? Will our upper arms look like we're wearing a kimono when we're not?
Based on my own experiences, it's not any of those things.
Deterioration begins with the memory. Some days I can't seem to remember a thing. Worse, I know I'm not remembering. If I were a delicate Southern lady, I'd probably stomp my dainty foot on the veranda and pout. "Ah swear Brent Tarleton, Ah cain't remembuh promisin' to eat barbeque with y'all at Twelve Oaks." That'd be kind of charming. But it's not like that.
It's buying ten cheapo pairs of eyeglasses at the drugstore so you don't panic if you lose one.
It's learning to say "blush" instead of "rouge," because the word "rouge" is a dead giveaway of age.
It's using a yellow Post-It on your steering wheel reminding you to switch off the turn signal; old people never turn it off because they don't hear the click click click.
It's making fun of old ladies' shoes when you've got a pair in your own closet.
It's never saying, "In my day..."
It's pretending you only know Debbie Reynolds as Carrie Fisher's mother, and knowing Carrie Fisher from rehab.
I tried putting paper and pen on the bedside table to jot down important things, but that only lasted until I wrote a reminder of a 12 o'clock lunch date. I finally remembered the date at 3 o'clock because I had accidentally thrown out the piece of paper the reminder was written on.
The other day, I went to the vet and forgot the dog.
There is a positive side to getting a bad memory: I can't remember my age, and yours will always be what it was when we met.
The lunch I had at Puka's Pineapple Hot Dog Stand is now recalled as a tour of the Hawaiian Islands.
There are no Seinfeld reruns; each episode is fresh and new.
I've told my kids I spent 12 hours in labor with the first one; it was probably more like 2. My kids tell me, if my memory worsens, that story will become one where I delivered the baby all by myself in a rice field somewhere in Asia.
And I can almost look forward to cataracts because then, when I look into a mirror, I won't be able to see the wrinkles.
I have nothing to read now, since I left my newspaper behind when I left the store this morning. I would have remembered to take it except I was totally thrown when that beefcake hunk behind the counter asked me if I needed help getting out to my car. I never planned for that.
I never planned for anything, but it's never too late.
There are ways to plan for one's financial security after reaching the age where you're asked if you want help to the car. Several telemarketers have tried to sign me up for financial planning, but I always tell them I already have financial planning. I tell them I'll go to my son's house and ask, "Which room is mine?
Back in 2003, I decided to have no more forward birthdays but celebrate instead The Unbirthday. That's when you deduct a year instead of adding one on.
When I hit 30 for the second time, I hope I remember what what to do.
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