Growing Old(er) Is Not For Sissies

It seems that I have reached an age where various body parts and internal accessories are starting to show some wear and tear. In my fifties, this was cause for taking offense, as I have been informed informed on numerous occasions, gently and apologetically, by various members of the medical profession, that "it's just part of getting older". And to add to the indignity, such phrases were usually delivered by health practitioners considerably younger than me - well just about everybody on the planet is younger than me these days - and so I would think to myself..."just wait, haha, you'll get there too."

Faced with the onward march of time and its effects on my mind and body, I try to practice what I would call constructive denial. Now, constructive denial is different than your basic generic dysfunctional denial, which can impact your life in a seriously negative way. But constructive denial can have a positive influence on things and I like to practice the simple homily that if you're going to do, or not do, something, one reason is as good as another. The dog ate my homework and all that sort of stuff. I have no interest in behaving or looking like my sixtysomething age, so I am willing to take extreme measures to avoid actually appearing as the typical grandmother that I (most marvelously, gleefully and gratefully) am. Occasionally, on a good day, a medical professional will utter the phrase "I can't believe you're sixty years old", and it just makes me want to give that person a puppy, or at the very least, trot out my voice recorder and get it down on tape, available at will for playback at critical times in my day.

But something is amiss with my chronological age, an age when most people, if they have been prudent, are serenely transitioning (don't you love that word?) into retirement. I, however, for various reasons, need to stay in the job market. And so I am willing to do whatever it takes to look and feel younger. This includes, but is not limited to, aggressive surgical measures (I decline to comment further), exercise addiction, and of course, the obligatory outings with crossword puzzles and episodes of "Jeopardy". This is all to keep my body and mind honed to its thirtysomething brilliance and keep me at the peak of my remaining powers and maintain what is left of my competitive position in the job market. Well, such as it is, the waning job market.

My latest foray against the overwhelming downward march of gravity is in the practice of "facial yoga". Now, my friends say this is "cutting edge" but I tend to think that the whole point is that there is no cutting. No muss, no fuss, no nuclear credit card bill, which also means no FF miles logged for that trip to Tahiti. (See "The Procedure" above.) But on the other hand there is no downtime, and no unexplained absence from work and social activities. A few twists of the lips, furrows of the brow, and violà, you're done. And not only that, you don't have to suit up in spendy yoga wear, once again proving correct the caveat first coined by Thoreau, to "beware of any enterprise that requires new clothes".

I think, and this is only my opinion so do with it what you will, that I prefer sixtysomething to fiftysomething. Fiftysomething, to me anyway, just sounds old, tired, cast away as flotsam and jetsam and washed up on the sandbar of life, without the experience and knowledge to provide that certain character, veneration, and stature. Sixtysomething, on the other hand, sounds redolent with riveting stories and edgy anecdotes, a state of mind and body worthy of respect and admiration. And, of course, for all my fiftysomething friends, this is meant in the nicest way possible. It's coming for you and you'll get there soon enough. So bring on the popcorn and enjoy the show.

Now, as I cruise along on my recumbent bicycle - the "recliner bike", a moniker provided by a random three-year-old as I zoomed by him on the bike path - my tall skinny nonfat latte secured in its bottle cage, I can't help but reflect on, say, what my mother might be doing at my age, with sixty now being the new forty and all. For starters if she ever boarded a bike in the first place, she'd have along her trusty gin and tonic in a plastic highball glass, complete with decal of the "19th hole", no custom lattes in Sigg™ bottles for her. She would not be going to the gym or logging time in an office. She'd probably be trumping tricks (sounds marginal, no?) at the local bridge club, where she and her cousin were some sort of regional champions. And, most likely, along with the cards, playing Comparative Lifestyle with her mother.