The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used To Be

Getting older is an interesting journey. When we are young, we spend our time dreaming about getting older; when we get older, we spend our time dreaming about being young. Are we ever satisfied with any age?

Yes, this getting older thing is an interesting journey. My roots are gray, but only my hairdresser knows for sure and my knees always hurt right before it rains. I tell the same stories over and over again to any and everyone, which makes me subject to the exasperated, “You told me already.” Now I have to ask, “Did I tell you this?” I never thought about the day when I would have anxiety attacks about missing eyeglasses. When I walk down the street, young men no longer do a double-take (they don’t do a single-take either). Still, old men do smile broadly at me on the bus or as I pass them on the street (I suppose I could count that blessing). They do their best to grab my attention as they try to whisper a word to me ("Get at me" is how the young people say it) because in their eyes (I think), I am a young woman. I talk too much about “back when I was a girl,” and sometimes I sound just like my mother (Yikes!). I just found out that older women who dare to connect with younger men are called cougars and certain colors are no longer my friends. Fashion designers and celebrity stylists want to tell me what I should and should not wear and of course I will always look much younger with short hair.

Every morning, as I get ready for work, I listen to the Channel 2 News. One morning a very toothy and animated anchor relayed a story about an older woman who was assaulted in a near-by town. As he closed out his story he referred to the woman as “the elderly woman.” What!!!! That woman and I are the same age. When did I become elderly? While it is true that I have passed certain age plateaus, does this now mean that I should go quietly into that dark night without a whimper or a sigh? Am I now consigned to the last seat in the back row of life simply because my thighs now have more jiggle than Jell-O and my upper arms have turned into wings, or that the decades are passing by a lot faster than I ever imagined? When did the mirror become my archenemy?

In spite of my rapidly passing years, or maybe because of them, I have learned a few things. After spending too many years of noticing my imperfections, I have learned to live with them. They make me who I am. There is not another me like me and I like all of me. I like my too loud laugh and my crazy sense of humor. I like that I care about people and want to make them laugh. I like what I wear and I no longer worry about what others think about me and my skinny jeans or my stiletto heels or my jangly jewelry. I mourn the loss of family and friends and look forward to seeing them in heaven. I cherish the moments I have and am blissfully astonished that I can still fall in love. I do my best to watch what I eat but I will enjoy that thick slice of double fudge chocolate cake without guilt. My grandchildren are God’s wonderful gift to me and my eyes (as they used to say in the South) are not big enough to see them. Life, in spite of my challenges and losses, has been good to me and I am not going to spend any time complaining about old age and the cruel jokes it plays on mankind.

Shoot! I still believe I can fly!