Most days, I manage to forget just exactly how old I really am. Never mind the fact that I’m always a little bit shocked when I look in the mirror, especially first thing in the morning when I’m not wearing any make up and my face is still puffy and my hair looks like what we used to call a “rat’s nest.” Or that my trips to the mall tend to focus only on stores that cater to women of a certain age, which means that the clothes they sell are designed for maximum coverage and almost always feature a “control panel” somewhere in the mid section. Or that I can no longer read anything without a pair of really strong reading glasses. Or that I am now routinely offered senior citizen’s discounts by clerks who don’t look old enough to hold a job. Denial is a wonderful thing, and over the years, I’ve gotten really, really, good at it.
But every once in a while something comes a long to remind me that my youthful days are now ancient history, and today was one of those days.
My daughter had a birthday today. I knew it was coming, since it lands on the same day every year. I also knew how old she was, since it’s not that hard to count to thirty-two. (Although I admit that up until a few days ago, I was under the impression that she was going to turn thirty-one, so I probably shouldn’t be bragging on my counting skills.) Yet there’s something about knowing that my daughter, whose birth I can remember as if it happened just yesterday, is turning thirty-two that just makes me feel old.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize that what I’m really concerned about isn’t the actual number of years I’ve been on this earth. I’m just trying to avoid behaving the way I have always thought old people did: longing for the “good old days,” afraid to try new things, becoming obsessed with my health, and in general, letting the “young” people do all the important stuff and have all the fun. Which, if you think about it, is just plain silly.
People of all ages are still actively engaged in the world around them, working hard to help others and contributing to their communities. People of all ages are still having fun, still pursuing their interests, and still making new friends. I think that the time has come for me to stop being afraid that turning a certain age means I have to somehow let go of the essence of who I really am and how I want to live my life.
Yes, my body isn’t as strong as it was and I have far more sags, bags and wrinkles than I would like. But I can live with that. It’s just the price I pay for the privilege of having lived for over sixty years, and all that I have experienced and learned in that time. Underneath it all, I’m still me and always will be, no matter what my age. Which means that getting older might not be so bad after all….
Spring has finally arrived, which means it’s time to do my annual Spring cleaning. This week I’ll pack up the last of my winter clothes and replace them with outfits more appropriate for warmer weather. I’ll touch up the paint on the walls and baseboards, wash the windows, vacuum the curtains and even toss my pillows in the washing machine. I’ll also clean out the junk drawer and sort through the many boxes of stuff we have stored in our basement in an effort to get rid of anything we no longer use or love. I am not what you would call a “saver,” but for some reason Spring is the time when I am especially motivated to get rid of excess stuff.
We just got back from a fun weekend spent visiting family in Iowa. On Saturday night, my nephew and his wife graciously hosted everyone for a big family dinner at their home. They moved to a beautiful old farmhouse in the country a couple of years ago, and this was the first time my husband and I had visited them there. Their one hundred year-old house (which is remarkably well preserved) sits on several acres of land, with a beautiful view of rolling pasture right outside their front door. They have fruit trees, a huge garden, several charming outbuildings and even a chicken coop, complete with six lively chickens. And as they were showing us around, all I could think was, “I want to live here.”
One way or another, I spend a big chunk of my life these days in the company of dogs. To begin with, I share my home with Lucy, a fourteen-year old dog who has always operated with a total disregard for household rules. And while old age means she can no longer move as quickly or hear as well as she used to, I still walked into our dining room shortly after we had finished this year’s Easter brunch to find her standing calmly on our dining room table, polishing off the rest of the dessert tray. Just for the record, she seemed to favor the little egg-shaped cakes over the lemon squares, although it was obvious that she had sampled both. She may be old, but she still knows an opportunity when she sees it.
Besides living with Lucy, I often help take care of my children’s dogs, which I’m more than happy to do. My daughter and her husband have Harley, a chihuahua mix who adores her immediate circle of friends and family and has absolutely no use for anyone else. In her own home, she’s happy to simply ignore people she doesn’t like, but walking her is a challenge. She may love her walks, but she also loves barking at anyone and anything she sees, and flies into an absolute rage when she spots an approaching car. It doesn’t seem to occur to her that five pounds of furious dog is no match for a thousand pounds of moving steel, and I’m not about to let her learn that lesson the hard way.
My son and his fiancé have Frank, a pug mix, and Roxy, an English Bulldog. I know Frank well since he lived with us for a while right after my son graduated from college, and have come to love Roxy, too. Roxy and Frank have become good friends in the past couple of years, although there have been a few necessary adjustments. Unlike most dogs, Frank loves to wear sweaters (probably because he doesn’t tolerate the cold very well), but Roxy has a problem with that. One cold December morning, my son sent the dogs outside with Frank proudly sporting a brand-new Christmas sweater. Ten minutes later, the dogs came back in. Frank was wearing only his fur, while Roxy had Frank’s Christmas sweater dangling from her teeth. Clearly, Roxy is a dog who knows how to take matters into her own paws, and Frank has learned to live without sweaters.
My mother has Penny, a sweet and elderly chihuahua who was rescued from a hoarding situation about nine years ago, which means that altogether, my immediate family has five dogs. I spend time with all of them, trimming nails and filling in as needed for potty breaks, walks and meals. For the past fourteen years, I have also been volunteering regularly at the Humane Society where I have logged in hundreds of miles walking shelter dogs. I’ve spent hours patiently coaxing a shy dog out of its run, or working to teach a rowdy dog basic manners, or trying to calm a dog who is clearly stressed out.
Muddling Through My Middle Age 