Last October, I changed this blog’s name to “Aging Gayly.” I realized the other day that I haven’t written anything since then that has been directly about getting older although references to Barry White, Karen Carpenter, Flip Wilson and Bette Midler may be dead giveaways. I don’t think I ever really left the ’70s.
There are reminders that I’m no spring chicken everywhere. One of the worst comes when I’m filling out something online, perhaps purchasing an airline ticket, and I have to enter my date of birth. For “convenience,” the numbers for month, day and year are scroll-down options. It takes a helluva lot of scrolling to get to my year. Entering the four digits would be both quicker and less humbling.
It's hard to believe I once struggled with accepting the term, middle-aged. It made me cringe. It brought to mind synonyms from my very own personalized thesaurus: passé, irrelevant, recalcitrant, rotting. Hello, regular references to nostalgia: answering machines, Blockbusters, “Designing Women,” Tang, Milli Vanilli, magazine subscriptions.
“Middle-aged” is way, way back in the rearview mirror unless I’m kidding myself into thinking I’m going to live to 116 (Go, science!). Do I really want to be that guy they wheel into the nursing home dining room, sitting deaf and oblivious in a wheelchair as they set a birthday cake in front of me when I haven’t eaten solids in a decade and gathering three or four staff members for a photo no one wants, then clapping as they pretend I’m the one who blew out the one candle they lit? I’d probably nod off before they even tracked down Jerry the custodian to borrow his lighter.
Yeah. There could be darker times ahead.
I’m thankful I’m still spry and aware enough to want to spit at anyone who puts “spry” and my name in the same sentence. Soon enough, I’ll be able to look people in the eye, say the f-word and have people think it’s cute. Hilarious even. When I glare and repeat the f-word, they’ll only laugh harder.
But I keep telling myself that’s far away. Middle-aged is gone but lopping off “middle” and just being aged doesn’t seem the right fit either. I continue to jog and ride my bike…a regular bike with no “e” in front of it. Then I’m reminded my bike just hit its thirtieth anniversary. I’m old-ish with old things. I try not to get hung up on that. I frequently pass people younger than my bike. Spry, indeed!
I’d like to believe I’m a generation away (or more, fingers crossed) from regularly reading obituaries and having funerals be my social scene. (“Finger sandwiches? Sheesh. They had a whole pasta bar at Lou’s.”) I hope to never be that person in line at a café who turns to a stranger and says, “All my friends are dead.” Let “good morning” roll off the tongue instead or, better yet, let there be no f-ing line.
My closest friend and I have talked about a time when we’ll text each other every morning, the hello or “Damn. Outta prunes. Again” serving as a means of checking in on one another, talk of our lack of constipation a more polite message than, “You’re not dead, are you?” We don’t text much as of now. Mostly, it’s out-dueling one another to announce a dead celebrity. Ed Asner. Betty White. Tina Turner. People I “loved” inasmuch as you can adore a person you never met who nonetheless brought joy. It’s always a macabre exchange, each of us offering something dignified and mentioning a favorite role/show/song. It will only become more macabre when more of the famous dead people are in our same decade or, gasp, the one that comes after us. Live long and prosper, Rob Lowe, Lisa Kudrow and Debbie Gibson. Each of you looks far younger than your years. Let that stand…for you and, ahem, for me, too.
Age is just a number, they say, but my how it’s getting big. “F that.” [Insert laughtrack. (Yep. I still remember what that is.)]
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