Crossing the Rubicon

Acting My Age

I used to be one of those people who claimed to be old when really they weren’t. As a general rule, my friends, loved ones, companions, have been ahead of me on the life timeline. Any writer worth their salt is a lover of a story and a student of history. In other words, an old soul. I don’t want to get caught by an unseen hairpin curve. So the older crowd was a good fit. In terms of a life strategy, it’s worked well.

I am coming to the gross realization though, that I’ve crossed the rubicon. In the fulcrum of lifespan, there are more rotations behind me than ahead. Age has given me the wisdom to know that there was no amount of planning that could have prevented or prepared me for it. 

A quarter century ago, I was hanging out with women who let me know what awaited me as I tried to navigate my awkward, clumsy attempts at a path—any path. Now? Instead of being the person frowning in empathy at creaky bones and arthritic knees, I am trying to keep my balance on my own. 

When I met a good man, one who loved me, was brilliant and curious, devoted to his family, I scooped him up. I knew a good thing when I caught it. Given our less than one year difference, he was even age appropriate. Age appropriate and employed, two things I couldn’t say about many of my boyfriends before him. 

Older moms showed me the practical parts—the onesies and diapers, the exer-saucers and the soccer leagues. I lost my parents young, but even before that, neither of them were conventional and it showed up in both my sister and me. I craved stability and learned the value of a chosen family, quickly.

I nestled my way into friendships and am grateful for the guidance. There’s a little wear and tear on them though they bear it gracefully. They are tired. They ache in the rain. Many chase grandchildren, but time is a fickle, relentless pursuer. They might be wiser than they’ve ever been, but it comes and goes, or gets stuck on repeat where they don’t remember how many times they’ve told you that one thing.

All of which seemed a long way off for me, until the bone spurs came. Then I was forced to admit to definite poses I can no longer make it into, no matter how hot the yoga is. Not that it’s terrible. Given what this body has endured this last half century, does it really need to do a full pigeon pose to prove itself?

It is bike season again. Last year, it was an embarrassing, precarious drag of my leg over the crossbar for both the mount and the dismount. I am happy to report my season of yoga has fixed that. The bike and I barely wobble, even with the accumulated layer of insulation I’ve collected over the winter. 

I refuse to give myself any less credit for the hour-long pedal assist bike ride that left me napping by 9:00am. I have hit the age of little victories.

I don’t have diabetes, but I do have a pill box just the same. A thyroid condition here, some high cholesterol there. These are the things you youngins’ have to look forward to. A personal, manmade sort of climate change as unwelcome as planet Earth’s. You hit critical mass and it’s all uphill from here. Or is it downhill? You forget, I can’t remember. 

My mother poured over the obituaries in the newspaper with her morning cup each day looking for evidence she’d done something better than someone else, even if it was only survive. My feed is full of newly arrived blessings, graduations and marriages of children. Mostly. Only a few tragic deaths, but the scales are leaning in the other direction. At least, the writing’s on the scroll. 

I am grateful when I wake up in real and profound ways that didn’t occur to me in my earlier years. There I go, ahead of myself again. Keep the cane for now, but pass the hiking poles?

Which brings me to why I walk or ride my bike, or throw out a few downward-facing-dogs a day. If you don’t use it, you lose it. That’s what people further down the road claim. But how long would that take? If the dogs don’t take me on their favorite 2 mile loop through corn fields, would I be able to pick it up a few weeks later? So far, so good.

A vacation of delightful vice can take days, weeks or months to recover from. Jet lag, once scoffed at, is now planned for.

Dear readers, I’m old enough to have had sciatica, a colonoscopy and also been recommended for the shingles vaccine. The time isn’t nigh, but it is “nigh-er.”

When I turned 50 I stopped washing the organic fruit. If the plastics haven’t taken root in my colon by now, they are running out of time too. For you, I wash. For me, I roll the dice, although I floss zealously. It’s a privilege getting old but so is having teeth.

Doctor’s appointments stack up. A colonoscopy here, an EKG there—before you know it it’s less maintenance, and more of a calling. Then there are the drugs, which I haven’t really accumulated yet, but the advertisements whisper to me. Better memory. Hormone replacements. Lubricated joints. Bigger —. You know the drill. One person’s infirmity is another’s drug boom.

The adolescent dogs I have are the first ones I’m not so sure I’ll bury, even if the odds are still in my favor. People often die around my age, though if a person makes it 70 they will likely survive till 90—something like that. No matter their statistics, my father did die at 62.

Before I make a big purchase of furniture or a piece of art, I ask myself if it’s worth it. Will my kids resent the towage fee when they cash in their inheritance? That’s assuming I don’t blow it all on a series of vacations in far flung places—like Madagascar, or Boca. Or on my healthcare. Yes, my darling children, that’s a warning.

Arthritis or not, remembering or forgetting, right now is the only alternative, so get into your bathing suit no matter where you are on life’s continuum. You’ll never be this young again. 

Time is a relentless truck backing into the loading dock. No worries though, soon enough, you won’t be able to hear it beep.