It’s finally happened. I really cannot read the morning newspaper without wearing reading glasses, unless I really, really squint, and then only on a sunny day. I suppose that marks my age (although just reading any print newspaper probably marks my age as well.)
I thought I might escape the need for reading glasses. After all, I have been wearing glasses and contact lenses since I was 10 years old – that means I have not been able to see without assistance for nearly 40 years. But no, these eyes – green and a little bit crinkly when I smile – finally need a different kind of leg up to keep working properly. And even then, the system is not as perfect as it used to be.
There are so many things like this that are creeping up on me, reminding me that I am turning the corner to – gulp – 50 next year. Witness:
An extra pound of weight that comes on seemingly with merely an extra morsel of food one day, and then takes a month of eating nothing but air and two hours of working out every day to lose, only to reappear the next day.
Bones that ache a little more. Feet that are finally feeling the effects of years of walking and heels (and may I note that going to a podiatrist REALLY feels like an old person’s thing to do?)
Sitting with cousins and spending three hours talking about the scandal from 50 years ago surrounding Aunt Irma and Uncle Jerry.
Getting tired at 9:00 at night, falling asleep by 10:00, and not being able to sleep past 6:00 am.
Skin that is a little more crepey than it was. Muscles that aren't as limber. Circles under the eyes that makeup cannot hide. Crow’s feet. Hair that hasn’t seen its natural color in over a decade.
Reading the obituaries to see how old people are when they die.
A recognition that you are no longer the young person in the room. This is made most abundantly clear at the bar and bat mitzvahs we attend, where we’re the old people at the table, who want to sit as far away from the loud music as possible, and the sad fact that absolutely no one cares what I’m wearing. And the sadder fact that no one wants to see me confusing my left and right feet while doing the Electric Slide surrounded by dewy skinned and giggly young teens.
Having children facilitates the recognition that you are aging. They never let you forget how old you are – the teens by laughing at your corny pearls of wisdom that clearly come from the Paleolithic Age, or the younger ones by wanting to take a bike ride with you, or toss a baseball, or go swimming together, none of which are things that you have any energy left to contemplate.
I think that many of us walk around with a secret, smug assumption that, despite all evidence to the contrary, we are not really going to get old, let alone die. We see senior citizens on the street, we watch our family members as they age, and we know that it is the human condition. But somehow, we think we might be immune, and not because we’re going to suffer an early, tragic demise, but because it’s truly impossible to really internalize the reality of own aging and death.
We receive little signals, one by one and slowly but surely, that indicate our bodies are starting on the immutable road to getting older. Sometimes it’s quiet and graceful, sometimes it’s a full-on assault. In either case, it’s inevitable.
Despite all this, there are many things I like about getting older. I especially appreciate the wisdom of age, and the feeling of greater comfort in my skin. While I still think about every morsel that goes in my mouth and how it might land on my hips or my belly, I don’t care quite as much and I’ve been known to go out without makeup and not really give a fig.
I like feeling strong and confident in my work. I like having years of work experience to inform my decisions. On the personal front, I like having the start of a long marriage (20 years and counting) under my belt, and at the same time, having an understanding of the difference between harmless flirtation and indecipherable mating rituals. I like appreciating the tremendous group of people who have crossed my path over the years, and being able to discern who is a casual acquaintance, who is a stalwart colleague and who is a close and dependable friend.
I like straddling the line between the Millenials and the Boomers, understanding a little bit about each generation and applying their mores to my own moves in the world.
Perhaps most surprisingly, I like feeling both more beautiful and more interesting at 50 than I did at 25 – back then I was too unsure of my direction, too worried about what other people thought, too callow in life experience. Today I like taking command of a room, of a situation, of a conversation. And I also know what neckline suits me best.
On the other side of the coin, the writer Meg Wolitzer, in an NPR essay about her feeling like a teenager despite the fact that she has two almost-grown sons, wrote about how, in her heart, she still feels like she’s a teen on the precipice of something big, perhaps something dreadful and dangerous, like getting pregnant by accident or overdosing on drugs.
I’m far from the realm where I would be worrying about either of these things myself, although they are obviously worries every parent of teens carries in their hearts. But I hear Meg’s cri de coeur – I, too, still feel like I'm 18 in many ways, despite the gray hair, despite the wrinkles. There are moments when I walk down the street and worry that the entire world is looking right at me and can read my mind and my secrets, although my adult heart knows that in fact, no one is even glancing my way.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table reading the newspaper with my cute new red reading glasses on, sticking them on top of my head whenever someone needs my attention, which is often. I am not the teen. I am the mom, the adult in charge, the person who is responsible for the lives of the three young people growing up in my house. When they were little, my kids were so convinced that I had eyes in the back of my head (which is what I had told them) that they once dug into the back of my dad’s head to see if such eyes were a genetic mutation.
Today those eyes are starting, slowly, to fail. It is a long process, hopefully one that will not complete itself before the end of my days. On top of the nearsighted correcting lenses that I’ve always worn, I now will forever have to think about farsightedness as well.
Despite all the downsides of aging, I kind of like the metaphor of the deterioration of my vision. My eyes are my windows to the world. They are literally taking a different shape as I get older, shifting my perspective and forcing me to be more attentive, and more careful. Some things are a little gauzier, like the cameras on an aging actress. Some are a little clearer, like the indisputable knowledge that I am never going back.
When I was in college, I used to think that if my house ever caught on fire, the most important thing for me to rescue would be my contact lenses and glasses. Now I know, of course, that I would rescue my children first, but my lenses would be a close second. For I don’t want to go gentle into that good night without seeing the stars on my way.
Photo by Kevin H. via Flickr
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevharb/3710945920/sizes/m/in/photostream/
Beautifully written as well as witty and engaging. You've done well to have made do without reading glasses thus far. I'm convinced that once I hit 43 one day my eyes were fine and the next day blurred! Oh well! At least having to wear reading glasses spurred me on to find ones that looked at least like a fashion accessory and then inspired me to set up a reading glasses and sunglasses online business turning a negative into a positive.
Posted by: Marie | Friday, April 20, 2012 at 06:34 AM