SENIOR SOLILOQUY
by Celia King
It has only recently dawned on me that at 73, I am aging. I don’t usually realize people are looking at an old woman when they see me. I’m looking out from inside, so fortunately for me, I have the better view. I’ve never felt my age, and so when I am reminded of it, it comes as quite a shock. I was a late bloomer, so maybe that has something to do with it. Inside I haven’t grown up yet and feel I’m just putting on an act of being 73. When no-one is looking, I’m still a kid.
DOCTORS
I’m sure health has a lot to do with it, and I realize in spite of my share of problems over the years, I’ve been more fortunate than most.
When my specialist recently told me I look ten years younger than I am, it made my day, especially as he should know having seen me from all angles. My family doctor is a sweet young man. The problem is he has such a baby face, and sometimes it occurs to me he looks like a kid who has donned a white coat and stethoscope. I console myself by thinking he hasn’t had time to forget what he has learned.
Speaking of doctors, since last year when I began attending a writing class at the university, my cholesterol level has dropped to normal. My doctor was flabbergasted. Since I can’t think of any other change in my life style, we both concluded attending the university did the trick. So for lowering cholesterol, the fashionable curse of the aging, I recommend all doctors take note and send their patients to a writing course or something similar they’d really enjoy. Call the technique "CCC": Celia’s Cholesterol Control.
Incidentally, driving to classes doesn’t work. Patients have to take the bus and to make sure a good deal of walking is involved, too. The trouble with me is that I’m an admirer of Mark Twain’s ideas on exercise. He says something like "if I get the urge to exercise, I lie down until it passes." Seriously, though. I have found a brisk walk of about 30 minutes at least 3 times per week does wonders, mentally as well as physically. It’s worth the effort if only for the selfrighteous feeling I get following the walks. Then I don’t feel quite as guilty when I gorge myself with non-fat frozen yogurt as a reward. By the way, mall strolling does not count, though I suppose it is better than sitting.
BUSSING
For seniors who don’t drive, bussing plays an important part in their lives. First you have the bus stop conversations, and I’ve met some very interesting people of all ages and nationalities this way. Lately my feelings have become bruised by the way people jump up to offer me a seat the instant I board the bus. It’s true that I’m really grateful to sit on these occasions as I am usually encumbered with grocery bags hanging from everywhere possible. They probably think I’m a danger to my fellow passengers if I’m standing, but I wish it wasn’t so obvious I needed a seat. Recently an elderly man boarded the bus at the same time I did. I sat on the only empty seat. He looked around and announced for all to hear, "I should sit because I have an injured leg." I promptly offered him my seat, but he proclaimed loud and clear, "Oh no. You’re older than I am." He’s lucky I didn’t hit him over the head with one of my bags. Chivalry is not dead!
By the way, middle age women are the first to offer bus seats, and teenagers are last, often pretending to be asleep if they see a senior. I’m surprised to notice mothers with young children will allow a senior to stand while the child occupies a seat next to the parent. In England, a child is automatically held on a parent’s knee to allow an adult to sit. I felt really offended recently when a well-mannered young man of about 12 offered to help carry my shopping bags onto the bus. I gratefully accepted but felt I must be going down hill fast, for this was a first for me. Mind you, I was having a day when my arthritis was letting me know who was the boss, so maybe it showed. I commend the boy’s kindness anyway.
I think it’s funny the way the doctor diagnosed my arthritis a couple of years ago, saying, "Don’t worry. It’s just the kind of arthritis people usually get when aging." As if that was a consolation. (Who is aging anyway?)
SPOUSES
In my case, getting older and widowhood hit me at the same time. My husband and I never felt we were more than middle aged although he was 69 and I was 68 when he died. In our eyes, we were just a little more mature than when we’d wed 38 years before. I honestly did not see my husband as an old man, and he made it clear to me that he still saw me as the young, slim, blonde girl he’d married. He delighted in letting me know how nice I looked and saw me through rose-tinted spectacles. That is one of the terrific gaps left when a partner dies in a long and good marriage. There’s no-one to tell you that your hair looks nice, or if your dress looks pretty, or if the meal you cooked is delicious. There’s no-one to zip you up when you can’t reach or apply sun tan lotion to your back. It’s the small everyday things you always took for granted that are the hardest to do. Worst of all, you are no longer the most important person in someone’s life, just when you need reassurance most. That takes getting used to.
REFLECTIONS
Now that I’m showing my age, I hate catching myself unawares in a window reflection, especially since I acquired that aristocratic addition, a "Dowager’s hump." When I’m not feeling good and I see myself the first thing in the morning, I wonder who that old hag in the mirror can be. But often I compliment myself and think, "Not bad for an old dame of 73. Am I really at that age?"
I’ve found out through experimenting, we older folks do need a little help in the cosmetic department, but there is nothing worse than an old woman wearing too much make-up. (Unless it is an old man.) The stuff gets in the creases, and the face looks like cracked pottery. For you old men, please, please get rid of those horrible furry pieces some of you wear on your heads. There is nothing wrong with a nice clean, smooth, hairless noggin. Yule Brynner, the "Love Boat" captain, and my husband proved that point.
I suppose the knowledge that one is no longer young hits people in different ways. My day of truth arrived when I tweezed a couple of stray hairs out of my chin and found to my horror that the usually golden little devils were white. It was bad enough when they were blonde, but this was adding insult to injury. Then I bent down to pull up my knee-hi’s as they looked wrinkled and found I wasn’t wearing any.
To console myself, I waited with bated breath when it was announced that Tom Jones was to be a guest on a late night TV show. He’s been my heart throb ever since he was a young unknown Welsh singer. I made myself comfortable on my easy chair with my feet on the foot stool, anticipating the pleasure of hearing him sing. The next thing I knew, I woke up with a start and found the TV had gone off the air for the night. Is that a sure sign of aging? Yes, if you knew how I had always felt about Tom. Oh well, the last time he appeared on TV, I secretly thought he was going off and getting a bit long in the tooth. I think his latest face-lift needs a face-lift. He isn’t immune to the passing of time either.
FRIENDS
My husband and I had only recently moved to be near our newly wedded son when he died, so I became a senior widow with no friends of my own nearby. My good friends were thousands of miles away, and although the caring phone calls and letters came pouring in, I felt very alone, especially since I had lived out in the country. It took me a year of mourning in isolation before I realized I’d have to do something about making a new life for myself. I hated the idea of joining groups for widows or seniors. I didn’t want to be told how a senior widow should be feeling and coping. I didn’t even want to read about it and preferred to charter the waters on my own.
I realized I had to move where I could join in the main stream of life again, and at age 69, I began afresh, now living in town. I took on a whole new personality because all the people I was now meeting knew me as a widow living alone in a modest apartment. I was no longer the cherished wife of a loving husband. I no longer had that lovely home and large groups of friends who had known me since our arrival from England almost thirty years before. Most of all, it was a difference that my new acquaintances only saw me as a senior.
When I recently took a trip to England and had a reunion with friends and relatives, some of whom I hadn’t seen in 30 years, I still (after the first few moments) saw them as the young people I used to know. I still see my sister, who is now over 70, as my kid sister. I feel that these new friends and acquaintances I now have are a whole world apart from my previous life, but I also feel very fortunate to have made such good friends in the last few years.
My son’s and his wife’s friends have been wonderful to me from the moment we stepped onto this island, and I’m so thankful for their friendship. Maybe it’s because they knew my husband (if only for a short time), but the rapport between us is somehow different, and they make me feel good about myself.
I belong to a couple of groups in which I am the only senior, and I love mixing with younger people. For one thing, I have no competition, and they seem to think that I’m spouting forth pearls of wisdom just because I have been around a long time. I feel guilty about it, but I find the senior group (which I recently permitted myself to join) a depressing experience. I’m a little concerned because I’m wondering how I’m going to live with myself as an older senior. Most of these seniors are older than I am, and I am one of the "youngsters" in the group. I don’t like what I see.
They are basically very nice peopie, and among them are former teachers, lawyers, doctors, and such. It’s the behavior due to age that I dislike, and I pray I won’t become that way for a long time (unless I’m already that way and don’t realize it). Except for exceptions, I find most are self-centered, full of complaints about everything, and too blunt. They always demand doggy-bags, even when dining in elegant restaurants, and fumble for money when it comes to paying for anything.
Most of all, I can’t stand the company of most old men. They are far outnumbered, so they think they are God’s gift to women. It’s beyond my understanding how any woman would want to take on an old man for a partner or husband. It’s entirely different when you’ve grown old together and still see the younger partner you once knew. Only then can the caring and love and deep affection of a life-time become stronger than ever.
One of the few older men whose company I’ve enjoyed since becoming widowed is a professor at a Welsh university. He is a good friend of my son who lives in Spain, and that is where I met the man. His sense of humor, intelligence, and modesty set him above most people in my eyes. Just my luck, he is a priest.
Now when it comes to young men, that’s a different story. I really enjoy their company and number several among my best friends. I think they feel safe with me, and they know they can confide in me and that I’m a good listener.
One of the greatest pleasures I enjoy in my later years is when people (often younger) call on me for advice. They frequently tell me that I have helped them just by listening, and that is balm to my heart. I have that same good feeling when I help as a volunteer at several organizations, and I am thankful for the certificates of appreciation I have recently received from them.
SIGNS OF AGING
Let me describe some "signs of aging" and show these "signs" do not always signify that.
As you can see by my list, most of these signs of aging have always been with me, so maybe that is why I didn’t realize I was supposed to be getting old. In my opinion, aging is not a steady progress, and some years I feel years younger. Good news from family and friends, or a cheerful greeting, or even a phone call can take years off. A good laugh does wonders.
FINIS
Do I think about death? I don’t dwell on it and believe that when my time comes, I’ll be joining my beloved in a wonderful place. Meanwhile, his spirit is here in my heart — every moment, night and day — so I am never really alone. I must admit I enjoy my own company and never get bored. I love to read and write and even enjoy some of the stupid TV programs as well as the good ones. If time permits, I can always recall the fascinating places I’ve been fortunate enough to visit, and my memory is peopled with wonderful friends.
However, life is still full and good. I don’t have enough time to do too much reminiscing. Maybe I’ll do more of that in 20 years time! Meanwhile, I hope to continue to keep my body and mind busy and to maintain a positive attitude.
To younger people reading this, I can say I do recommend aging, and you have nothing to fear. I suspect some of the old fogies who complain so much about aging were probably young fogies, and they were complaining when they were being diapered. Just make sure that as you travel through life, you don’t do anything you will look back on and hate yourself for. Make good memories for your old age.
© Celia King, 1998.