Reality

     This age thing is becoming glaringly obvious in numerous aspects of my life, and I am beginning to panic. A bunch of us from my apartment complex had a barbeque today. We are a diverse group of varying ages and ethnicities, all of us dog owners, and dog lovers. At any given time on any given day, our courtyard is like a mini dog park, with an equally varied group of dogs running around playing together. The owners resemble a group of parents at a playground, socializing while the kiddies play. Of course there are always the few canine kiddies who are incorrigible, and will run off given the first opportunity. It is amusing to watch us ladies of a certain age attempting to sprint after the elusive greyhound wannabes. A 30-something neighbor of mine became genuinely concerned, fearing that one of the “old ladies” was going to fall and break a hip. Aghast, I expressed to her that we are not that old. She gazed at me with a mix of surprise, pity, and amusement, if that’s even possible. I could see the unspoken question of  “how young have you deluded yourself into believing you are?” running through her head like a banner on a movie marquis. What age do I perceive myself to be? Well, in my head, I’m 30-something too, although my body is screaming at me “you’re flirting with 60, you’d better get used to it” (though sixty is a ways off yet…). Okay, so I’m in denial, but I am becoming enlightened as I witness sentiment ranging from concern (as in my neighbor) to ambivalence (of some who shall remain nameless). A distant relative of mine, who is a mere 20 years old, indicated on FB that she was “freaked out by a 60 year old woman who was working out at the gym, who has long hair and the body of a 19 year old”. Some of her friends were equally ambivalent:  “Ew, gross”, they opined in unison.  I was compelled to comment that I give the woman a lot of credit for taking care of herself. By  the way, up until about six weeks ago, my hair was 2/3 of the way down my back. And I work out. So there.  (I know, that was juvenile).

     In all seriousness, at the age of 50-something, I have earned the right to style my hair in any manner I please, wear hip hugger jeans if I want to, and try to outpace the younger set on the treadmill at the local gym. Thanks to my post menopausal higher levels of testosterone, I will not so subtly admonish opposing opinions of those who disagree with my choices.

     It seems to me that we older folks are caught up in a "semi-senior Catch 22”. We are criticized if we let ourselves go, and we are criticized if we try to look and feel young as long as we can. The youngsters can’t have it both ways, however. Besides which, it would behoove them to encourage older people to work out, and eat right, and try to stay young. This way, the chances of them becoming caregivers will diminish, as we strive to be healthy and maintain our independence.

      So here I am, on what is for me a typical Saturday night, wrapped up in my routine of writing, reading, and cuddling with my dog, while my young neighbor is outside socializing with the other 30-somethings, blissfully unaware of what she inspired. The fact that I love these quiet Saturday nights is in itself, telling. Reality, be gentle with me.