HOW TO BE AN OLD LADY
In a world where a woman becomes invisible when she hits 50 and
you are in your late 70s why knock yourself out? Nobody is watching or keeping score. You might
as well relax into granny porn and the free bus ride to Atlantic City for the
slots.
You are the last person in America who hangs wash on a line
to dry, and wonder why you bother. You grow your own tomatoes, you have six pairs of shoes none with heels, you don't shop, you car is 10
years old, you can fix things, you know the names of
flowers and trees, you understand money. You are an okay but not great writer. You are a maphead with a sense of direction.
You have a lot of information. You are an engineer, a wonk, a genius – but WHAT GOOD DOES IT DO?
Your mantra is: “Who are these people? What are they
thinking?” and you sound like a crank. Who cares if young people are mindless
and the zoning people are zombies and debt is the American Way. You remember
when people lived small with no electricity and no central heat and
refrigeration was a block of ice. What a Dodo.
Mainly, you read. You read some good stuff mixed in with a
lot of junk. You keep a list of what you like but the list disappears from the
online shelf you spent a lot of time building. Many of the books you recommend
are memoirs: stories about how people change their lives and how women make do.
You write a piece about what you don’t read that also makes you seem like a
crank: no vampires, no letters, no talking animals, no
paranormal, no future, no cozy.
You watch sports on TV and wish you were an Olympic rower.
You know there is a Y down the street but have yet to sign up. You got three
(pre-Title 9) varsity letters at your Ivy League university but have been going
to pot ever since. You think maybe a little roadwork might do it but your feet
aren’t good and there is a twinge in your right ankle. You consider getting a
small bike but worry about falling so you can't take care of your disabled
husband who you've been with for 45 years.
You have regrets but hope for forgiveness.
You know there is a limited supply of new chances. You wish you weren’t
so resentful and petty and such a stubborn know-it-all. You are pretty sure you
are not at all “authentic,” whatever that means. You chuckle at
little internal monologues although that often looks nutty. The way to your
heart is the prat-fall, the brass band, the trap drum and Hot Club music.
You loved your mother and are still not sure how you feel about
your father. You made your sister look bad. You’ve been a disloyal friend and a
not very good relative. You are usually honest but not always. You are a
tightwad but practice generosity. You’ve been a devoted and useful wife and a loving mother.
Some say you are a co-dependent and enabler. You don’t
exactly understand this but it is probably true. You like to drink but can no longer do much of
it. You think you may be disaffected and dissociative. You used to have fun and can’t remember exactly
when that ended. Distant is your middle name. You are afraid of being deserted and
lately panic overwhelms you. You know you will be left. You’ve already seen it
happen.
You dream about people who are dead. You miss your dog. Heartbreaking
things – smells, pictures, sounds, vistas – remind you of moments in the past.
Your memory is good but not your hearing.
You know you are lucky and that your life is blessed beyond your
wildest dreams. You thank your lucky stars for security, for community, for health, for life,
for love.
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