What Does It Mean to Be “Older”?
Here’s what I learned from wrestling with the idea that I might be considered older
Kelly Eden’s story on older writers startled me. I read it with interest, while one part of my brain was registering disbelief.
To begin with, I immediately included myself in the category of writers Kelly was writing about. I’m not used to the idea that people consider me old because of my age, so I was interested in the article but at the same time resistant. It wasn’t until I took the time to read the piece a second time that I noticed her featured writers were all in their eighties.
So why had I taken it personally?
Disclaimer: I’m not picking a fight with Kelly. I admire her and have benefited from her mentorship on Medium. And Kelly probably has no idea how old I am. We’ve only encountered each other virtually, which makes it hard to judge a person’s age. And I know Kelly most certainly wasn’t thinking of me when she wrote her piece.
In fact, she was trying to convey her admiration for the work of the writers she featured. I just don’t want to be considered remarkable because I accomplished something at my age.
The truth is, I’m halfway between my sixth and seventh decades. I know I’m not thirty, and in truth I have no desire to be.
But to me old people are people who shuffle around painfully slowly, with rigid little routines that mark the hours of their days as they pass — each day exactly the same as the one before.
That is not me!
And it’s not anybody I know in their sixties, seventies, or even eighties! For all my 65 years, I still have a purpose for my life — things I want to accomplish and plans to continue making a difference. Old people, in my view, are people who have given up on dreaming, on learning, on growing. And that has nothing to do with chronological age.
I wrote those paragraphs and then took a break to celebrate Christmas and anticipate the New Year. Now, as I come back to the writing, I realize my thinking has shifted.
My kneejerk reaction to what I thought was an undesirable label by a writer I admire was an error. So I’m glad I took the time to digest the article and sift through my feelings.
Instead of penning a rebuttal of the label “older” I’m choosing to celebrate myself as an “older” writer. So, thank you, Kelly, for prompting me to think about my age.
I’m part of the demographic group known as the boomers, born between the end of World War II and the early 1960s.
There are about 72 million of us living in the United States alone, and we come from every walk of life. According to one Internet source,
Baby Boomers are confident, independent, and self-reliant. This generation grew up in an era of reform and believe they can change the world. They questioned established authority systems and challenged the status quo.
We’re aging, but we’re not growing old in the same way our parents did. On average, we’re healthier, wealthier, and more educated. Most of us will live longer. Many of us are choosing to launch new careers or new business ventures instead of retiring.
Here’s what life looks like for me in my sixties.
I chose a few years ago to leave a career and a job that I was proud of but that left me with no time to follow other dreams I had, which were equally important to me. I wanted to leave this world a better place for my “years of having passed through it” (to paraphrase Walter Benton).
I started a life coaching business and began accepting invitations to speak publicly about my experience of surviving an abusive marriage. I began to explore once more my desire to write and publish.
When I tell people what I’m up to these days, that I’m building a business and writing, and doing some consulting, they’re surprised.
“You’re working harder now!”
Yes, I am, but I’m choosing each day what I spend my time on.
And some days that means watching reruns of Blue Bloods on TV or reading what the nuns at my high school would call a “trashy” novel. Other days, I put my butt in the chair and write or do the less enthralling but equally important work of building my business. And some afternoons I volunteer with a local organization that picks up unused food from area restaurants and grocery stores and delivers it to food pantries and other organizations that distribute it to those who need it.
As I write this, the snow is coming down in wet heavy clumps and accumulating on my deck furniture and the branches of the tree in my small backyard. It’s the first snowfall of the season, and I’m enjoying the quiet that blankets my home.
The only sound is the clicking of the computer keys and the background hum of the heating furnace.
I’m enjoying this season of my life.
I’m living life on my terms, with an adult son who I’m watching with pride as he launches himself into his own, separate life. I have a family that loves and supports me. I have close friends and a network of colleagues who encourage me and are available for the occasional marathon phone call to catch up or to join me for a companionable stroll through a museum or art gallery and lunch.
I’ve gone from shuttling my son to preschool and play dates, to fretting through his teen years, to surviving divorce, and along the way, caring for my aging mother, all the while working at a job to earn a living. I wouldn’t trade one moment of those crazy years, though I’m glad they’re behind me.
But I’m not done yet!
I’m just getting started working on dreams that have sat on the back burner of my life while I fulfilled the demands of my multiple roles as wife, mother, employee, and caregiver to an aging parent. I’m embracing new roles. I finally feel entitled to call myself a writer, because I’m doing the work.
Am I an older writer? You betcha!
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