A sissy's approach to getting older

Some of these old folks are feisty! 

“Feisty” is the only f-word I’m allowed to spell out in this family publication, but let me tell you – if you ask a person at the upper end of the actuarial table what it’s like to get older – step back!  Because she will answer!  And, it turns out, one of the salient qualities of the senior set is that they have shed their inhibitions and donned their daring.  I love that!

Just to cut to the chase, consider Madonna.  I wasn’t a big fan of hers until I read what she said to Nightline six years ago about approaching the half-century mark:  "Yeah, f*** you, I'm 50.  That's what I'm going to say when I turn 50."

OK, you’re right.  I hardly consider 50 to be old, but I appreciate her bold spirit!  At the same time, I admit I’m pretty tame in contrast.  

Still, I kinda wanna be like that! 

But gosh darn it!  There’s so little a person can do between going all ‘Madonna’ - chest   bumping Old Age and shouting in its face – or meekly inviting it in – aging “gracefully.” 

To me that’s the same thing as surrender.  I don’t want to give up being cool!

So I say ‘no!’   

I know.  I talk a big brash game, but in the execution, I revert to diplomacy.  And clearly, Old Age is about as susceptible to diplomacy as ISIS.

Therein lies the dilemma.  A person like Madonna can express the rage that comes with the daily realization that time is not just slip, slip, slippin’ into the future; it’s downhill racing.  Time is screaming and careening around the track toward the checkered flag.  

What is a mild-mannered ‘fraidy cat supposed to do?

I figured I’d better get busy and figure out how to deal with this aging thing.  So what if I’m about a decade slow on the uptake?

I went to my loving husband first.  “Honey,” I said, evincing the timidity I felt both at broaching the topic and at facing the inevitability.  “I don’t know how to get older.”

“Well you’re doing it!” he said.

Ah.  OK then.  Let’s see.  Maybe I should study some role models for aging; they will show me the way to forward progress without loss of cache. 

Just look around and ask the question, “Who do you know who’s getting older while retaining that certain je ne sais quoi?” 

(I looked it up:  In French it’s literally, “I don’t know what:” An intangible quality that makes something distinctive or attractive.  You know – cool.)

A few folks leapt to mind:

First I thought of Mork.  As you recall, he got to go backwards.  That’s the dream:  As we get older, we get younger!  Alas, it’s fiction.  Not a good example.

Next, inexplicably, I thought of Keith Richards.  He’s defiant; and so far as I know he never gets in anyone’s face like a certain Material Girl does.  But, but…  Well, I hate to succumb to vanity, but I don’t want to end up looking like a smokin’ zombie either!  (Sorry Keith!  You are still very cool.)

Maya Angelou!  Now we’re getting somewhere!  Could I please mature into her kind of patience?  I want that same steady gaze of experience and wisdom. 

Mahatma Gandhi!  He was a courageous old guy.  And, that wardrobe!

What about Dolly Parton?  I love her approach to getting older:  “I will never retire unless I have to.  As long as I'm able to get up in the morning, get that makeup on and my high heels on … I'm going to do like Mae West; I'm going to sit in a wheelchair with my high heels on.”

I wouldn’t mind being like Dolly except for the likelihood that we would both end up like Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?”  Uncool.

Bette’s the one credited with saying, “Old age ain't no place for sissies.”

That quote used to scare me, maybe because I am pretty wimpy.  But now, since I’m doing it, I only feel scared some of the time. 

Other times, I get that I can grow older and retain my awesomeness. 

OK, got it!  Helen Mirren!  Eh?  Right?!


Yeah.  Helen Mirren!

You Can't Make Me Frolic!

The month of May is “Older Americans Month!”  Hooray!  

And the theme for Older Americans Month?  A theme, you ask?  Yes!  And it’s probably set to music and we may be compelled to dance. 

“Never Too Old to Play!”  That’s it!  Never too old to play… 

I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but having our own month and carries pressure.  Pressure is stressful. 

Reminds me of Charlie Brown and Snoopy at the park.  Representing Older Americans in my analogy, Snoopy dashes to and fro with a frantic expression on his furry face.  When Lucy appears and asks what’s going on, Charlie Brown says, “I brought him to the park to frolic, and by golly, he’s going to frolic!” 

First of all, I don’t subscribe to being an Older American, though this group is ever so delicately defined by our state legislature as people born before 1963, and I was.  They’re quick to point out that this group includes oldsters like 53-year-old Madonna, and 58-year-old Pierce Brosnan, thus making it clear that it’s cool to be an Older American, especially if you have an airbrush.   

I’m well aware of the less desirable alternative to surrendering to the pandering.  It’s just that the identification and expectations strain my good humor.  It feels a bit like getting a vacuum cleaner for Christmas.  Next thing you know, people expect clean floors. 

One of our assemblypersons, no doubt with the most benevolent intentions, not only declared the month our month, he went on to explain it for us:  “This month encourages Older Americans to stay engaged, active, and involved in their own lives and in their communities.”  Without this declaration and definition, we wouldn’t know what to do! 

So for our benefit, he included a list of fun things in the event we Older Americans are non-plused at the prospect of identifying engaging activities and then engaging in them.  

First, we’re invited to an area theater for the premiere of an award-winning documentary “Age of Champions!” wherein we’ll be inspired by the stories of athletes who “sprint, leap, and swim for gold” in the National Senior Olympics.  We'll meet a 100-year-old tennis champion, 86-year-old pole-vaulter, and a group of “rough-and-tumble basketball grandmothers as they discover the resilience of the human spirit and triumph over the limitations of age.”  

It’s true, I haven’t sprinted, leapt, or even swam (swum?) for gold in the longest time.  But I’m not sure this film will inspire me.  Frankly, the prospect of all that flapping flesh is a turn off.  But gosh!  I’ve always wanted to be rough and tumble.  I’ve only ever been awkward and irritating.  And I never could dribble - though perhaps that’s coming soon. 

I’m thinking younger Americans might be a better target for this film.  Sometimes they’re the ones who need inspiration. 

Next comes "Grandma It's Me," a seminar offered to teach older adults how to recognize and avoid becoming the victims of fraud including the phone scam for which it is named.  I guess that like our children, our grandchildren will turn on us and dupe us out of our car keys. 

I know, I know.  I know these things are useful.  Some of us need protection and supervision.  But is it “Older Americans” born before 1963, or is it the really, really old Americans.  You know, the ones older than I am.   

Finally, we get to use “AskMabel,” the brand new type of search engine that tailors results for “older internet users, helping them find ‘suitable’ answers to their queries.”  Have we been waiting for this!  All this time we’ve had to use Google just like everyone else!  That’s just wrong.  Our own special search engine will make us feel, well, special.  I hope it speaks to us!  Loudly and slowly please.  Can we get big buttons too?   

OK.  I guess I am a mite testy.  But really.   

What irks me is the cheerful nature of this proposal.  Its author must be some sun-shiny do-gooder born between 1964 and yesterday.  Mind your own business you middle-aged American!  I’m going to declare a month for you!  Let’s see…June!  June is Middle-Aged American Month.  Now, what shall we tell middle-aged Americans to do?

I’ve got it!  Let’s take them to the park and watch them frolic!

Don't Call Me Shirley!

Whenever I’m trying to soften a blow, I find a nice name for the ugly thing I need to talk about.  You know, a pimple becomes a blemish.  “Boo boo” stands for road rash.  Oops, I guess that’s a euphemism for a nickname.  Maybe I should just say “scrape.”  But it conjures up painful experiences I’d rather suppress. 

In the United States, we favor nicknames for our unmentionables.  Of course, “unmentionables” used to mean “underwear.”  Once, our delicate sensibilities prohibited our calling undergarments by their names.  We were ‘way too proper to say “slip,” or “brassiere” in mixed company.  Certainly not “bra.”  And we could never, never say “panties.”  Why grown men stuttered at the prospect.   

Then Madonna wore her lingerie on the outside, in an instant rendering all lingerie mentionable.  We’ve been chipping away at George Carlin’s list ever since.  You remember his list, don’t you?  The seven words you cannot say on radio or TV.  He developed it through trial and error when his mother smacked him each time he inadvertently said one in her presence.  He wondered as a child why she didn’t just give him the list in advance.  Would have saved him an a** whippin’.   

See?  That brand of whippin’, common in households back in the day, didn’t get the graphic descriptor in polite conversation.  Now, even the President calls it right out.   

Actually, we still can’t say most of Carlin’s words without some repercussion.  Victorian civility precludes inclusion here of the one word from his list that’s common on TV now.  You’ll just have to do your own research and sort it out. 

Frankly, I wish some things remained unmentionable.  Although in retrospect, some restrictions were pretty silly.  My husband and I just watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” as we do every Christmas.  We see something new every year (or maybe, like those progressing into senility, we repeatedly forget what we should be able to recite verbatim).  This time, we laughed when we saw the scene in which Donna Reed reveals she’s pregnant by hinting with a veiled reference and a knowing smile to Jimmy Stewart.  Then, he lets us know he gets the hint when he responds with elation, “You’ve got a bun in the oven?!” 

It took an awful long time for some folks to grow up and say “breasts” without giggling like seventh grade boys in sex education class.  Even nicknames for a person’s body parts remained taboo well past maturity and common sense.  People didn’t speak about breasts, much less use the less-threatening, if inane, term “boobs,” in spite of the fact that Barbie raised them into waking consciousness (pun intended) back in 1959.   

Today we’re pelted with so many blatant anatomical references that it takes a Grey’s Anatomy to keep up.  We have gynecological patter on every show from “Oprah” to “30 Rock.”  It started when Dr. Ruth surged past Dr. Freud with her gleefully graphic sex advice.  Now, Dr. Oz just rides the wave. 

In some cases it may be important to drop the niceties and call a thing by its proper name.  Gambling for example.  Have you noticed the ever-so-subtle push to rename it “gaming”?  This shift is an attempt by those who want our money to make an unsavory thing more palatable.  Responsible adults don’t have gaming addictions - unless they can’t resist the PlayStation.   

“Sex workers” and their “agents” are wending their way into our vernacular.  Prostitutes and pimps fade away.  Their “clients” are no doubt grateful.  The new language elevates and garners more respect.  These are human beings, after all.  Human beings deserve respect even if their behavior is ill-advised, dangerous, or self-destructive.   

Nevertheless it rankles, like “collateral damage,” or “greed is good.”  Too much 1984 for me!  Remember?  The Ministry of Plenty oversees economic shortages; the Ministry of Peace wages war; the Ministry of Love provides the center for punishment and torture; and, of course, the Ministry of Truth controls language and propaganda.   

Still, part of me wishes we could retain the gentility of the charade.  Let’s quit mentioning the unmentionables.  I know; mortgage lenders could go back to telling “stories,” instead of lies.  We won’t deal with being fat when we can be “fluffy.” 

But what’s the harm in eating “Chilean Sea Bass” instead of Patagonian tooth fish?  It’s less stressful in a Stepford Wives kind of way.   

Just don’t try sneaking those mountain oysters onto my plate.