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I’ve been wrestling with how to self-define: being “old” or being “elderly.”
It’s the lesser of two evils, but on the eve of 76, I’m chronologically in the autumn of my life. Late autumn. I feel neither old nor elderly, but few English language options celebrate a long and productive life.
“Senior/senior citizen” is a non-starter unless tied to a discount.
Being elderly is probably the better option because in other societies it connotes dignity and wisdom; with life experience respected if not revered.
I don’t live in one of those societies. I live in one awash in ageism. One that shows neither kindness nor compassion for the expected frailties of advanced years, wisdom, and experience be damned.
“Old” is a pejorative. It suggests something no longer useful, nor wanted: old furniture, old food, old clothes.
Old cars get off easy; they become “antiques,” often with a special license plate designating them a “classic.”
We humans should be so lucky.
© 2024. Jane Trombley
