I am compelled once again to write about aging. Forgive the repetition. I am on the cusp of a birthday that will propel me into a new decade. After five years of unpacking the emotional upheaval that emerged around my 65th birthday, here I am facing another milestone. The process is speeding up. F*k.
As a teenager, I was a disciple of Seventeen Magazine. I remember sitting on my yellow and green flowered bedspread with my friend Cathy, the glossy pages spread open across our folded knees. Between the fashion and makeup “must-haves” was a suggestion to have fun imagining what we might look like when we were older. We were instructed to grab a mirror and place it on the floor, lie on our stomachs on a bed, and hang our heads over the edge. In addition to the blood rushing to our brain, we could look at our reflection in the mirror beneath us. That, said the bold print, would show us what our middle-aged faces would look like.
The face looking back up at me was a collage of my mother and grandmother. The skin no longer held taught to my cheekbones. The smoothness around my eye sockets now baggy. The weight of my eyelids narrowing my gaze. I was horrified. Yet we laughed. It was unfathomable that could happen to us.
Now I occasionally pick up House and Home or the Oprah magazine, or a self-help book that promises to propel me into the realm of joyful and fulfilling old age. There are testimonials preaching the science of longevity; eat greens, do strength training, and track my REM moments and blood pressure blips on my wristwatch. Dotting the pages between the editorials are promises of age reversal serums, surgeries that turn back time, and vacuums that will suck fat from my belly and deposit it on my cheekbones. Once that’s done, I can live in a gated community with everyone else who looks like me and go on river cruises.
I am reminded of the time I was paired in a ladies’ day golf event with an 80-year-old woman. Untouched by the relentless media and societal sway of anti-aging interventions, her grey hair, lined skin, and tiny frame radiated vitality. As she quietly placed the club face behind the tee and took an easy swing back and through, the ball soared straight and far, landing in the middle of the fairway. She was gentle and supportive of my struggling game. We laughed often. I was inspired by her authentic and humble nature.
I often feel overwhelmed with the fanatical pursuit of youthfulness. I am envious of eastern and indigenous cultures – elders are revered for their beauty and wisdom. While we strive to stay relevant and look like our children or movie star photos, they settle into their excess skin and grey hair. Their life experience is considered worthwhile, a teaching tool. Rather than launching a defensive regime against time, they cherish it. Family gathers closer, rather than fanning out into “they’re busy with their own lives.”
I’ve worked hard, emotionally, physically and spiritually to find my path through the threat of feeble, invisible, irrelevant, saggy and wrinkled. Each day doles out servings of blessings and curses. I am humbled to admit that I have a finite amount of energy. I am plagued most mornings by lower back pain, my left knee is cranky, and the knobby joints in my hands ache. Undaunted, I huff and sweat at the gym, lift the couch and shoot the rug underneath with my foot, and haul my clubs around a nine-hole golf course. I do all this to ensure I can pick up my grandchildren for a proper full-body hug, sit on the floor and build towers, and catch them as they jump off the side of the pool. I do all this so I can hike gnarly trails, ski steep slopes, and climb up on a stool to get my favourite pitcher down from above the wall oven. I do all this so I can be active and engaged in family and community.
As I brace for the next decade, I know how much it matters.