M is for Mature

A commercial came on the other day for some heart medication.  It showed an older, bespectacled man and his college-aged son.  The man told us his version of his heart attack, the son told us his.  The weird thing was, I found myself identifying with the older man, considering my own impending (though hopefully far in the future) death rather than identifying with the son, whose own future heart attack was such an extremely remote possibility, he probably left the commercial shoot driving 8o mph while drinking a beer and texting on his cell phone and balancing a Big Mac and a super-sized french fries on his lap.

The first time I realized I was aging was when I was 26 and I filled out a survey in a magazine.  When it came to the question of age, it said, “Circle your age group:  13-16, 17-19, 20-24, 25 and up”.  I was in the AND UP group!  What?!  How could I be cruelly pushed into an age group that included people who wear Depends and forget where they put their bifocals?  I guess the fact that I was reading Glamour had something to do with it. 

And lately I do feel old. 

~I color my hair to hide the grays, not to give myself a kicky boost of color.

~ I own reading glasses and bifocals (though not Depends!) 

~I need to walk really slowly after I get up from sitting on the floor with my kids so my knees can loosen up. 

~I wear sunscreen and sunglasses and a visor all summer, but the damage from my sunseeking youth is apparent in all my wrinkles and blotches. 

~I forget where I put my car keys, the names of acquaintances, appointments, telephone numbers, and once I lost a pack of chicken patties that I swear I bought and put in the fridge but mysteriously disappeared. 

~Things are sagging in scary, scary ways. 

~I nod and smile and pretend I know what you’ve just said to me, because my ears are either going or I don’t have the focus to pay attention and process everything you tell me anymore, and it’s just too embarrassing to keep saying, “What?” or “Could you repeat that a little more slowly and loudly and use gestures and maybe draw a picture for me while you’re at it?”. 

~I no longer read Glamour, but do love my Good Housekeeping and People magazines.  I don’t, however, know half the celebrities in People anymore.  Who are these young Jersey Shore whippersnappers, and why can’t they put in more good articles on Melissa Gilbert, Michael J. Fox, and those lovely Golden Girls (or I suppose I should say, Golden Girl).

The other day, Dave and I were talking about where we’d be in another 40 years.  I said, “Well, 6o’s not so bad.  We’ll probably be enjoying the empty nest and having fun applying for Medicare and our McDonald’s senior discount cards.”  He gave me a look that said, “Beth.  Think.  And go get a calculator.”  And I recalculated and it hit me that in 42 more years I will be 84! 

That’s old.  I am on my way down the mountain, people, and I’m sliding mighty fast.  I always thought I’d age gracefully and appreciate my years, the knowledge I’ve gained, my quiet wisdom exuding a calm glow of maturity as the youngsters crowd around me, begging for stories of the days when televisions only had 4 channels and we cranked car windows by hand and we typed our “term papers” on a “typewriter” and used “White-Out” if we made a “typo” or actually had to retype an entire page for a particularly picky professor after which we heated our canned soup on “hotpots” and “talked” to our roommates.

But instead, I’m feeling frantic, I wish I’d have worn a bikini when I had a chance, I wish I’d have appreciated the agility and beauty and sweetness of youth when I was there.

I wish I could do cartwheels again.

On the other hand, that McDonald’s discount is going to be mighty sweet.