Age, You Jokester

Newfound observations about becoming a junior senior

Turning sixty seemed like no big whoop. I didn’t feel much different than when I was in my fifties. I even felt better. My kids were grown, and I had more freedom.

But as the sixties creep on, my thoughts have been permeated by some new realizations. At times, I feel like Alice in Wonderland — ‘curiouser and curiouser ‘— about what’s happening in my evolution. I think I may not be alone in my reflections; if so, I’m with you.

The body /mind disconnect

One big aha is that my body doesn’t correlate to my mindset. By a long shot. I now have a permanent resting bitch face (RBF) unless I make a concerted effort (falsely) to look perky.

I receive the unwelcome “You look tired” comment (usually when I think I look good — that’s what I get for examining myself in a flattering light without my glasses)-which is instantly deflating. But I don’t feel tired.

Despite such stings, I feel eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-five, maybe fifty inside most days— yet my physical body betrays me.

There is no more concrete evidence than the Target dressing room. Trying on ill-fitting clothes under the fluorescent lights with the three-way mirrors is truly traumatic; I am here to give warning not to do so when you are of a certain age (or perhaps at all).

I have yet to meet a peer whose mindset is congruent with their exterior. We all imagine we look younger than we do (which leads to trying on ill-fitting clothes) and then become even more horrified when we attend class reunions. The guy with the full white beard hunched over a walker? Is that one of your teachers or your high-school crush? (Likely the latter, most of the teachers have all died).

It is lovely to feel young inside, yet poignant, because often our physicality reminds us we are increasingly limited. And in reality, many things, opportunities, people, and experiences are gone or will not come our way again. This mind/body disconnect can bring on melancholy, at least in my case.

Yet, I also have a newfound gratitude for all I have experienced.

My mortality

Then there is the omnipotent sixty-five. For me, that age marker is when the guillotine falls — bring on the meager senior discounts, for real.

It seems as though we older women are officially written off, except to be consumers of expensive medications and targeted for incontinence pads. “But you’ll get Medicare,” some remark brightly as though it’s a bonus.

Yippee! Holy Mother of God. I know I have to adjust to that idea of sixty-five. But I haven’t. The jig is up soon.

The common adage is that the elderly are twenty years older than you are. Now, it’s the saying to which I cling. In twenty years (and it will go fast), I will be eighty-three, the age at which my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer and died within six months.

I am fortunate thus far that I have only received gentle nudges signaling my vulnerability. Ow, my shoulder hurts. I am told there’s a cataract developing (but not enough to have it removed), and I need new glasses and another crown. I’ve undergone minor procedures and surgeries, funny growths (and rule-outs), twinges, and false alarms. Let’s not forget regular colonoscopies, especially after my mother’s demise. I continue to blithely skirt around the landmines.

The big guns have left me alone: heart, lung, and kidney disease, stroke, crippling arthritis, diabetes, major cancer, and a plethora of other significant afflictions.

I am greatly privileged as a white woman; I have not been weathered by systemic racism, poverty, and/or trauma, all of which likely contribute to premature aging. I’m still standing (but I don’t like to stand for too long).

Still, the passages of all my elders, a few close friends and acquaintances — even my therapist — (did I mention most of my favorite musicians?) — are increasing regularly. Why should I be surprised? Yet I am with each hit. They were too young, we say, as we share the news.

Then there was my dad. My pop lived to ninety-three and drank beer every day of his life until just before he died. Overall, his longevity seems to bode well for me. The bigger question is how the remaining years will play out.

I am in a sweet spot right now, and I remind myself to savor it.

Taking care

I’ve become more aware of potential hazards. Reckless youth is far, far behind. I am increasingly mindful of my health and taking care of myself. I have health insurance — (at the moment)** and keep a reasonable diet, get some exercise, and have adequate sleep… but there are some new things to factor in.

Don’t trip! The dreaded fall — perhaps the number one life-changing event for many older people, including my dad and mother-in-law (who died as a result). Falls must be avoided if possible. Don’t stand on chairs to hang a picture.

Don’t step in front of the stealth Tesla in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. Be especially careful in your bathroom at night. Obviously, texting while walking is a very bad idea. Watch out for your pets! They will wrap themselves around your ankles or trip you on the stairs. And don’t wear silly shoes. Work on your balance.

I have friends who try to control all the variables with diet, exercise, staying busy, limiting alcohol, etc., and as such, have determined they are guaranteed life into their nineties. They may have a better chance than I, but shit happens. One is still climbing ladders to do repairs.

Conversely, I know others battling cancer, all of whom were healthy prior. Bravo for these friends who face such enormous hurdles with authenticity and grace. I have marveled as they make the most out of whatever time is left. I wonder if I would do the same.

As each of us looks nervously at our peers, we rationalize our own lives in hopes we, too, won’t be cut short. I didn’t grow up next to a nuclear plant, I barely touched alcohol, it must run in his family, etc., she did too many drugs as a teenager, he had a lot of stress, etc. There must be reasons for the early demise. I did smoke a bit as a teen, am I doomed?

So yes, I remind myself to be mindful and take care, but not at the expense of living fully.

My brain is like a sieve.

Then there is my aging brain. My mind, where is my mind? (The Pixies refrain plays more often than not these days)

Recently, it seems my thoughts are increasingly addled and adolescent. I have always aspired to the Michelle Obama version of maturity (that’s a very high bar, I admit), and yet I wander farther away from that ideal, my mind an untethered child.

I make physical lists of everything (if I put them on my phone, I’d forget to find them on an app). Otherwise, I‘d yield my adult responsibilities, hang out with my cat, and watch Netflix (contentedly). Is there a pill, along with my vitamins, for finally attaining maturity and self-discipline? What is the benefit of being mature, exactly? Bills? Stress? Working constantly? (I’ve been there with all of it, but having constant responsibility does not make me feel more adult, just irritable and tired).

There is now the verb ‘adulting’ — maybe I’m not alone. Why do I feel as though I am still grasping this concept when I am old?

I attribute my fuzzy brain (partially) to years of hard-core parenting (as well as being a social worker). The mental toll may have contributed to cognitive overload.

Yeah, everyone says it’s menopause, COVID, Trump, but honestly, for me, it was being a mother. Surviving my kids at all, particularly in their adolescence, affected my brain. It’s been nearly five years since I have lived with either of them, and I am still recovering. Could the stress incurred from raising kids have anything to do with my current state? Or perhaps now, being free, I am relishing the me, me, me, the person who was buried in there.

I do not regret the empty nest. *

And yet. Acceptance and wisdom.

Today, my actual age doesn’t matter much to me, except when I pay too much attention to the dominant culture (what women shouldn’t wear over 50, being told you need to cut your hair, etc). A friend admonished, “Oh, just give up!” No, I won’t. I have a penchant for thrifted clothes and red lipstick and will still have fun. I do it for me. It’s not about pleasing others anymore.

I am unfettered again, as if I were in my twenties. I no longer have caretaking duties for the first time in a long time. Years and years. I took care of my dad for most of the last decade. He is gone, I miss him, but there is some relief.

Back in the day, I was so insecure I shrank away from being assertive or claiming anything for myself. Now, I finally realize I am allowed to shine. Most of the time, I feel — that overused term — blessed. But it’s true. I have a positive spirit and a new ease with being, and I find delight in ordinary things. I am more confident. For some inexplicable reason, despite all the grind of recent years, my spirit is young.

Sure, my body shows a life of experience. I have spots and wrinkles; the list goes on. As any barrage of online ads will berate you, aging is undesirable and must be fixed. I’ve let that go. I’ve come to appreciate the scar left on my face by skin cancer surgery: it shows I am resilient. No one notices anyway; we are all absorbed in our own lives and ourselves (as borne out by this naval gazing writing).

My body does not match my mindset — but I accept myself now.

Oh, aging, you are a jokester with the last laugh. I suspect there are a lot of women grappling with these issues.

If we live long enough, we have the luxury of reflecting upon this season in our lives. Here I am. And I am damn lucky.

© Margaret Kramer 2024

• *I love my kids by the way — especially as they have grown into such caring and kind adults. It was worth it.
• **health insurance — a major stressor and expense, a whole other topic, probably one of my biggest worries