I’ll admit that I took turning 65 pretty hard. I was happy to get the “senior’s discounts,” sure, but I’ve been getting those since I was a mere pup of 55.
It’s the word “senior” that really sticks in my craw.
My late friend Jennette had a dad, Jim, in his late 80s when she was my age. My friends the Van Dusens, some of whom are in their 70s, still have their beloved mum, Shirley, who is quite fabulous, painting and drinking white wine in her 90s.
In other words, all seniors are not equal.
I’ve often wondered why I, at 67, is lumped into the same club as our magnificent elders. It’s a nearly 30 year gap between the age I am now and Shirley’s age and she very well could be my mom.
As a younger person, no one would ever have put me in the same cohort as my mother!
Shouldn’t we cut the category in half? Shouldn’t I be a pre-seen?
Do you realize that the Golden Girls were only in their 50s and were regarded as “golden”? Who agreed to that?
Shouldn’t they have been platinum blonde, at the very least?
I don’t like the term “senior” in the way I don’t like the word “alcoholic”.
Doctor: Do you think you are an alcoholic?”
I say: Have you met my friends?
I view myself as an arrested 17 year old, a hot toddy in an aging mug. I ache in the places I used to play, but I aspire to still participate in the game.
And if you read this Substack, you will know that I am immature which is why, while I hate cancer, I am happy to have colon cancer for all the jokes.
This week, I was all a flutter about Donald Trump nearly clearing the courtroom with the stench of his old man farts.
I suggested to my husband that he reach across the aisle and ask Stormy Daniels for a butt plug, then we could all watch him blow up like an orange balloon at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.
I mean, do you see what the guy eats? And I’m the one with colon cancer?
In the past few years, I have worked hard to embrace my senior status by taking on a number of ailments: bad knees, numb toes, a two-inch loss in my stature, psoriasis on the back of my head, arthritis in both of my middle fingers. Plus, all my conversations now — not just about cancer — are about my health or my healthcare.
My friend Suzanne: Are you going to buy a bed jacket for the hospital?
Me: I have a sweater.
Suzanne: New PJs perhaps?
Me: I’m going in for colon surgery. Do you think I need new pajamas and underwear?
Nobody cares what you wear in the hospital as long as you wear something that doesn’t leave you bare-assed for the world to see. Besides, if the operation goes sideways, I feel it’s a waste of L.L. Bean. I’m practical in that way.
Back to being old. Lately, I’ve begun to feel younger. As in, “I’m too young to have cancer; I’m only 67.” Suddenly, I feel lithe and strong, especially compared to all the people of all ages I see at the hospital who have picc lines that allow the nurses to inject a steady stream of who knows what into their veins.
I was shocked to see the long form I had to fill out for the anesthesiologist about my present and past medical conditions. I have virtually no “comorbidities,” except perhaps for a morbid sense of humor.
So it makes me feel young.
I do have a point, here, somewhere. Oh yes, I have finally figured out why people my age are in the same category as really old folks.
As we get older, we realize that we have made it through our terrible childhoods, broken hearts, the death of our parents and some siblings, the sudden passing of dear friends who were perfectly fine yesterday. We suffered through raising teenagers, then watched them either kill themselves, get arrested, or turn into fine humans who then spawn another generation of trouble and trauma for all involved. We’ve also done all we can in the work/success department. Let’s face it, if you haven’t made it by 60, you’re not getting on Dancing with the Stars or buying that nice condo in Mexico.
Mostly, if we have to work, and I do, we have only crap jobs to look forward to.
I saw a guy in Loblaws today who must have been a 105. He was pushing a cart, and insisting on helping me select a bottle of wine, even though I just buy the cheap stuff. He loaded me up with over-priced Canadian wine, which I promptly took out of my cart when he wasn’t looking.
I do have standards!
I left the store, after ditching the Inniskillen in the international food aisle, admiring the hell out of that guy. I couldn’t stand on my feet for an eight hour shift if I tried, so I wanted to make him feel valued.
After 65, we’ve had to watch our spouses, if we’re lucky enough to have them, get old and wrinkly before our very eyes. The balls and boobs go first. Talk about low hanging fruit. (Like I say, immature is my middle name; it’s how I deal.)
We’ve also gone through the bucket list and realized getting sick in a foreign land ain’t that great, and we really just want to watch CNN or play golf or pickleball, and bide our time til there’s no time left to bide.
If we’re lucky, God didn’t give us lemons for our bodies. If we’re unlucky, then we deal, complain and finally shrug off illness until it’s time for the ultimate dirt nap.
As the saying goes, old age isn’t for sissies. Neither is young old age. Nothing to be done. Might as well accept it.
After 65, when all is said and done, we realize that we have finished the first three periods of the game (childhood, parenthood, and career) and we’re in overtime. There’s no time to lose, and losing isn’t an option.
Whether we’re 65 or 85, we’re in it to win it.
And we realize we’re lucky to be in the game at all.
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Ya know, I kinds like the moniker "Senior". It means I've lived! I have earned the title. I am Senior in life.. yes indeedy, that's a fact.
I've seen it and done it all! And, in fact, in the corporate world being "Senior" (anything) is a greatly coveted prize.
And then....most important of all....I'm still standing upright. A great achievement, after any life well lived.
I'm gonna take it and revel in it!
Funny Girl! I'm still smiling. I like the idea of "pre-seen". I'll be 70 in June and hubby 76 a week later. We both have creaks and groans at various times of the day and night. Our 10-year-old dog and 16-year-old cat fit in perfectly - day and night. We are all elders = lots of life experience and happy to tell (tall) tales. Our friends in their 80s still call us young'uns. Fine by me!!