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...As Opposed To Growing Old Gracefully
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Age should be an attitude,
not a count-up of years
of TheColumnists.com
It's happened again.
Early in January the Washington State Department of Licensing
(DOL) informed me I'm now legally old. Nearly 10 years ago Uncle
Sam did the same thing, only he softened the blow by offering
me money. Not the DOL, oh no.
There must be a new law this year that identifies anyone age
70 or beyond as a possible safety hazard if they're driving any
kind of vehicle. Thank goodness they didn't limit this to the
female of the species, or I can gare-on-tee you I'd be
leading a gigantic brigade of women up the steps of the Capitol
Building in Olympia. We'd all be foaming at the mouth, screaming
for blood, making dear, sweet Carrie Nation look like an amateur.
Even Elliott Ness would run for cover if he were still around.
It really set me back when I innocently walked up to the counter,
produced my current drivers license, asking, "Can I write
a check to renew this?"
Instead of an answer to that, I was asked, "May I ask why
you walk with a cane?"
The last time I was there to renew said license I was also walking
with a cane, but I wasn't asked why. "Because I need it
for my balance. I only use it when I'm outside my home because
of different levels of walking surfaces."
At that point it was explained to me the new law required anyone
over 70 with a visible handicap to have a doctor's signed authorization
stating they were physically fit to safely drive on Washington's
streets and highways. Okay, I'll go along with that--only because
I have to. Had they said I'd have to prove my weight they would
have had a furious female on their hands.
Strangely, I don't feel old. All right, I'll admit there are
some mornings I wonder who is that tired looking woman peeking
at me from the mirror. I sent her on a long vacation and learned
to ignore her forever more. I can recall parts of my juvenile
years when I believed anyone 25 and up was living on borrowed
time. Now I know that if you're trying to refinance your mortgage,
that's when you're living on borrowed time.
Turning 30, now that was OLD. I remember all too well that morning
before I left for work going around the house, touching things
and saying good bye. I felt like it had to be the last day of
my life, that I'd drop dead due to old age before quitting time.
That lunch hour I went to Macy's to buy my very first jar of
moisturizer. If I was going to die, I'd be damned if my skin
would look dry and old.
Now I can tell you for a fact: Age isn't a number. Age is an
attitude. As long as my "new," surgically-repaired
knees will carry me through the security checkpoints at airports
all over this universe I intend to keep traveling. I have to
admit there are days when Arthur Eyetis let's me know
I should act my years, not my imagination. Whenever he bothers
me I flip him the bird and continue enjoying myself.
Probably I was all of 13 when I decided I'd never allow myself
to copy what one of our neighbors did to hide her age. She had
told my mother it was her duty to dress fashionably and never
have a single gray hair. I'm guessing she used henna red because
her hair was a harsh, unnatural shade. In my (pitifully) young
eyes, her (phony) hair didn't match her old face. Silly, impractical,
un-aged me. My opinion demanded that we all should age "gracefully"
and accept what Mother Nature gave us.
No more! Who was that dumb kid? Lady Clairol is a goddess that
I bow to regularly. Gray isn't a color, it's an affliction.
Actually, there are advantages to walking with a cane. Men of
all ages offer to open doors, carry a package, all sorts of things.
In those times, I do my best Southern Belle act, smile, barely
lower my head and say ever so sweetly, "Why, thank you,
dear. I appreciate your kindness." I swear, if they were
puppies they'd wag their tails off.
©2008 by Patricia J. Geister. The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first posted Jan. 28, 2008.
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