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Since I recognized the thumbnail here, I assume I’m sufficiently old to be classified as such. The headline says so. They got me. That’s fair. But the glib “I’m sorry”—that chuckling, offhand dismissal of any age after...what is it now...25? 30?...well that’s a different story.
I didn’t read the “article.” I never do. But I assume it’s full of the quaint, adorable items on which we relied 30 years ago when humankind was mired in darkness and ate mud. When the height of technology was the IBM Selectric in my parents’ office.
How precious! How dare we think we could put a man on the moon? Oh wait, that was 51 years ago.
Now back to the “I’m sorry.” The cult of youth, of course, underlies everything. The olds are out. The youngs are in. That’s a broader societal issue and I don’t much care about it. People can do what they want.
But as a woman, I am supposed to find the idea of being old (I am old) to be abhorrent, to hiss at it like cat cornered, to fight it like I’m drowning. Old is an insult of the first water and not to be borne. Yeah, no.
Old has brought me an incredible career. And then a second one that gives me so much joy my eyes fill up talking about it.
Old means I get to grow even older with a brilliant man, also old, who has invented and continues to invent products that everyone, young and old, uses each day. (You’re welcome. That’s what old does.)
Old means everything that was black and white and SO VERY IMPORTANT when I was young has settled beautifully into shades of grey where there is forgiveness and tolerance and acceptance and peace.
Old means wonderful friends who’ve witnessed decades of my occasional triumphs and frequent blunders, people who know me and love me like no one else. Thank God for their patience and their excellent mud recipes.
I have made spectacular mistakes that brought me pain I thought would never end and still may not. I have also made a few wonderful choices, often accidentally.
I have learned and have become if not better as least willing to be. All that amazing life stuff comes from...you guessed it...being old.
Far better writers and thinkers than I have mused on this. I haven’t added anything new, expect that this is me, right now. Old.
My face is lined in ways I thought would never happen. My body doesn’t look or work like it used to. It won’t ever again. I can mourn that. I sometimes do. But I’m not going to die before I’m dead.
