HOW TO BE AN OLD LADY

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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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