It has all come to the point that today I bought a book called “How to age.” And before you say anything, I am not shopping for compliments or complaining that I am wrinkled or anything like that. And may I just add how surprised I am that of all the people in my life, I only share this with a limited crowd. This being the anxiety over growing old. The rest of them recite (or live, God bless them) mantras on how age is not an issue when you have dreams to fulfil. Or they just matter of factly say they don’t really stop to think about it. I will be there, grinning, homework done in hand, when it hits them in a few years. I will spare them the “I told you so” though.
What do I worry about, anyway? I just want to stop and say how I have changed, how my body is different from what it used to be, and how life gets smaller as it also pulls into focus. The fuzzy enthusiasm of the twenties and early thirties wanes off as I become more aware of the boundaries of my existence. Also, the relationships in it get richer. And fewer. I no longer cringe over my convictions, they seem to float around, and eventually get replaced by the next shift. I’ll have that with a second helping of fries, as I chew on people my age being in completely different universes then me, like choosing kindergartens. And then there’s the anguish of potential loss. Being left stranded with only half of what we had when a dear one passes. I am not ready for that either.
Please do not reassure me, no reassurance or comforting is needed. The book did it, as I hunched sobbing over my iPad, consumed with every word. You see, I’ll get though anything with a story. It just needs to be a good one.