Columnists
Aging is better than the alternative
Getting old really is a mixed bag. Getting old isn’t for the faint of heart. When I was much younger, I never gave much thought to aging. I suppose I thought I had oodles of time to get around to being old. I’m a baby boomer. Boomers, it seems, are taking the process of aging by the horns and are trying to wrestle it to the ground. Now that we’re here, we aren’t going to take it lying down or in the Barcalounger with a crocheted blankie across our titanium knees. According to news sources, we Boomers are the image to which many, much younger, people aspire. Apparently we’re stylish, sexy, fit, vibrant, ombre-grey-haired, educated, out-there people, moving and shaking folks. And, judging by the ads on television, we seem to be having the best time, ever. We salsa in our adult diapers. We’re not afraid of a steak or an apple because we’ve got the best ever denture adhesive. We’ve got drugs to get us up (in every sense) and drugs to keep us going. We ski. We swim. We lift weights. We skydive. We cruise on rivers and paddle the rapids. We are a generation who want to keep moving, but most obviously fear being old. I think what we really fear is the kind of old our grandparents were. We don’t want to wear house dresses or sensible shoes. We don’t want to smell like mothballs or Vicks VapoRub. We don’t want to own snug cardigans with pockets to hold our reading glasses and our snotty hankies. We may well prefer the comfort of granny panties, baggy boxers and baggy corduroys, but we’re out there buying the skimpy lacy undies and the skinny jeans. We Boomers didn’t just look for a fountain of youth, we created and engineered hundreds of them. We are a generation who won’t easily decompose when our time comes. And we’re working overtime to extend that time coming.
More than any generation before us, we inject, ingest, implant, hydrate, gyrate and invest in our physical appearance at an alarming rate. Our grandparents may have been content with saggy chins and flapping upper arms, but we, the Boomers, will fight it every step of the way. As many times as I’ve said I’m not too concerned about my aging self, I am shocked by the physical changes that have taken place in the last 10 years. I’d like to blame my children, my jobs, LOML and genetics for my wrinkles and dimples, but if the truth be told, I’m pretty much responsible for most of what looks back at me when I do look in the mirror. And, to add insult to the age-injury, I recently had a medical appointment with my new physician, a person who is younger than our youngest child. Let’s just say I wasn’t too worried about my weight or the state of my health. I was hoping for a pat on the back for all of my hard work. Instead of the accolades, my new child-doctor ordered a round of tests that plop me squarely on the “old farts” chart. Without even telling me how wonderful I look for a woman of my age, I was assaulted with requisitions for a cholesterol test, a diabetes test, a thyroid test (I am hypothyroid, so this is routine) and—to rub salt in the wound—a requisition for a mammogram and a package containing a kit for a “selfadministered” (how shall I put this) poop test. Geez. As I live and breathe, I couldn’t even fathom such a test even existed. All praises to the postal workers, because the completed test was mailed and to the lab techs who get to open those packages and do what they do-do. If for one moment I thought I was feeling good about myself, it only took a stack of requisitions to put that to rest.
Yeah, I’m in better shape than I’ve been in years, but I am older than I was a moment ago. I’m going to continue to spend my money on a gym membership and personal training. I can’t let growing old get me down. It’s too darned difficult to get back up, at my age.
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