On Being Old

 BEING OLD

by Ruth Latta

“The first time I realized I was old,” said my friend Alma, years ago, “was when I was the only customer in a boutique. At the cash I had a  pleasant exchange with one of the clerks, but when I was halfway out the door I heard her say to her friend, ‘Isn’t she cute!’  I thought, ‘Oh, my God, I’m so old I’m cute!”

At the time, when I was middle-aged, I thought it would be nice to be considered cute, but now, at the age Alma was then, I’m still waiting for someone to say that to me. 

I first realized that I was old about fifteen years ago when a bank employee was explaining the difference between two kinds of accounts.

“Now, Mrs. Latta, suppose you want to write a cheque for your granddaughter for her birthday,” she began.  

For a few minutes I was confused and disconcerted.  Not only did she think I was old enough to have a granddaughter, she also assumed that it was a granddaughter old enough to have a bank account and cash a cheque. Time has passed, however and now I have four grandnieces and nephews, all their teens and all of whom like cheques.

Recently I felt old all over again when I went to have my hair trimmed.  My hair is quite thick, and the hairdresser complimented me on it, then added, “You must be the envy of all the women in your residence.”

Ah. So I look old enough to be in a seniors’ residence. In fact, I live in a garden home with my husband and we plan to stay there as long as we can. Never mind that we probably can’t afford the sort of seniors’ residence we’d like to live in.

Talking down to elderly persons, or addressing their younger companions instead of them, is condescension that I’ve not yet  experienced, having no younger friends or relatives who live nearby and go out with me.  I’ve been told that it’s very common, though. A tall, capable, even formidable senior told me that when she took her daughter to an elegant lunch, one of the wait staff  asked the younger woman, “and what will your mother be having today?”  I’m confident, though, that the senior lady spoke up and ordered for herself.

On a recent visit to the extended family I heard a relative refer to me, my husband and my brother-in-law as “the octogenarians.”  My husband and I are pushing eighty, and my brother-in-law has passed that big number that ends in a zero.  I prefer “the geriatrics” because it sounds like “gymnastics.” I let the “O” word pass, though, because getting together with the family in our home town was a pleasure.  A while back, one of the children asked me if I was born in “the olden days,” and I said, “Yes, back in the mists of time when dinosaurs ruled the earth.”  The children in the family circle have now grown into talented teenagers who seem to like me, and I am amazed and thankful. They are startled and amused when I swear, though, which is another sign that I’m old.

When you’re old, your natural eccentricities that you’ve had all your life become pathological.  Young people can lose or forget something and no one thinks much about it; sometimes they’re called ‘careless,’ but no one starts talking about memory clinics.  You can be a charming scatterbrain earlier in life and people may think it’s cute, but when you’re old it becomes symptomatic. Recently, with some people who were discussing an acquaintance’s memory loss, I announced that I had CRAFT Disease. Some asked if that was a form of dementia.

“No,” I said, “it stands for ‘Can’t Remember a Fricking Thing.’”

One of the unpleasant things about old age is feeling obliged to be the grown-up in the room, not the weirdo. Now, even more than earlier in life, I feel under some social pressure to conform - not to go out in the world looking like mutton dressed as lamb, not to be the granny in the hootchie-coochie outfit. I make a special effort not to cough, sneeze,  pass wind or spit in public. 

The famous poem by Jenny Joseph, which begins, “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple, with a red hat, which just doesn’t go,” is about the freedom old age brings you to be yourself, but, as the first line indicates, it was written by a women who is not yet old.  Like the imaginary old person in the poem, I like free samples; in fact, I plan to get a T-shirt that reads, “If there’s a discount, I’m a senior.”  I’ve never pressed an alarm bell but I love pushing those big silver buttons that make doors open. I don’t exactly ‘hoard’ pens and pencils, but I have a lot of them, also quite a few manuscripts in cardboard boxes.

I know from bitter experience, however, to stay away from pickles and sausages and other foods that are unhealthy for me. I’ve never sat on the pavement when tired because I don’t know how I’d get up again.  Though tempted, I don’t pick flowers from others’ gardens, for fear of home surveillance cameras. 

In short, for my own good, I try to be a socially acceptable old woman without too many peculiarities. Someday, perhaps, one of my younger relatives will say, “Ruth, we’re going for a little drive, and I’ve packed a small suitcase for you,” but I’m determined to postpone that day as long as possible.  Maybe, though, I’ll join the “Red Hat Society,” the worldwide women’s association inspired by Jenny Joseph’s poem, and dine out with the girls in fancy red hats and purple outfits.