A few weeks ago, when I boarded a crowded tube in London England, a young man stood up and offered me his seat. When I hesitated, he pointed to the sign – priority seating for disabled, pregnant and seniors. What made him think I qualified?
I just need to look in the mirror. My hair is grey, my skin is wrinkled – I am an old woman. It’s a state of being that has snuck up on me as a gradual slowing and sagging. It’s not been a pretty process, but I am grateful for the good health that has brought me to this point in my life. I also realize that longevity is in part a simple matter of where I live.
Today, as a Canadian woman I can expect an average life expectancy of around eighty-five years. Depending on what measurement is being used, Canada rates as between number sixteen to number twenty-two of over 200 countries in the world for longest life expectancy. Our health care system might be teetering on the brink but at least we still have a level of care that enables us to enjoy a quality of life not available to most humans on this planet. In Chad, Somalia, or Lesotho a woman can expect to live into her early fifties, and in Hong Kong or Monaco her average longevity would be close to eighty-nine. The oldest person I found a record of was a French woman, Jeanne Calment who lived from 1875 to 1997. An impressive 122 when she died.
As I approach my seventieth birthday, I anticipate a few more healthy years await my pleasure. There are still so many things to do, experiences to have, laughs to share.
Most of my friends feel much as I do, embracing our senior years with vigour and determination to live them fully and well. But I know someone who complains with bitter anger about aging. To that person I would like to say, be glad you have the privilege of growing old. Be proud of that accomplishment. Enjoy your status. Relish every precious day of your full life. Find joy in your aging body. But my words don’t penetrate a barrier of impotent fury.
I’m disturbed by continual moans about growing old. Of course, we all have our moments to rile against the increased restrictions on our once-upon-a-time youthful bodies. Five years ago, I moved a large plant container to a spot under a rhodo. This year wanting to move it to another location, I found it had gained weight. I couldn’t budge the thing. So frustrating. I realized that not so long ago I worked in my garden for eight or more hours at a time, but not anymore. These days six hours is tops – on a good day. It’s not easy to adjust to this less powerful, less energetic, more feeble body.
Even so, gratuitous complaining seems both inappropriate and thoughtless, because the only option is the one Mike faced when he was just fifty-three. Those of us who don’t get to grow old, die young. No thank you. Last year alone I attended five services for friends who died young. They all cherished life and I wonder what they would have to say to those who consistently complain about their aging process.
The road through life is seldom an easy one, but it is one we must all travel to the inevitable destination. For some, the road is short, for others it is filled with horror and hardship. I’d like my journey to be long and to continue to be full of joyous surprises. But every road – especially ones in Canada – have bumps, potholes and detours along the way. Perhaps I will come to a washed-out bridge and get stopped in my tracks sooner than I’d like. I hope if that happens, I will be able to accept my fate with grace.
While on the subject of roads – as Pat and I plan our next walk, we do so with a view walking no more than twenty kms on any day. Well, definitely no more than twenty-five. Our aging bodies protest too loudly to those thirty-plus km days we tackled in the past. It’s a challenging reality to contemplate, but how privileged we are to still be considering another walking adventure. Fingers crossed our plans come to fruition. We figure shorter distances will give us more time to enjoy cold beers at the end of the day.
So here I am, grey, wrinkled, slower, weaker, more tired, less able, with sometimes painful joints and delighted to have lived long enough to be in that state. I don’t know what my future holds. Continued health would be great but it’s not a given.
Some of my desire for a continued healthy life, I can control through my walking and gardening activities and being able to afford to eat well. My social groups also impact my well-being and I know that a positive outlook is key. Loneliness, they say, kills. Thus, when I get together with friends, we laugh about the sorts of inappropriate things old women find hilarious. What is laughed about on the patio, stays on the patio.
I don’t dye my hair, and always hoped I’d go white, not grey. It’s a vanity thing. White hair seems dignified, but grey will have to do. I like to believe grey is a sign of wisdom, but in my case that may not be true. I don’t cover or bleach my age spots, although I have been tempted. I do my best to ignore sagging flesh – as dreadful as it is. Buffs work well during Zoom meetings because that closeup camera is cruel. I’m active but not opposed to spending a rainy day curled up with a good book.
I try to find humour in many situations because laughter, they say, is good medicine. Remember my frustration when I couldn’t budge that plant container? Removing the plant and soil, rolling the thing around the garden to its new location, then replanting it, solved the dilemma. That damn container is asymmetrical, so it wanted to roll in circles. Three hours to complete a task I thought would take ten minutes! The day was cold and rainy, not a fun day for such nonsense.
“What did you do today?” asked one of my sons when he phoned that evening.
“I moved a container,” I said, and then we both laughed because that sounded so lame.
In the words of Monty Python, “Always look on the bright side of life.” A good mantra to live by. Thank you, Monty.
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