On Getting Older

When I started this blog, I was recently unemployed and felt like I was dead. The New York Times solidified this perception by declaring that women over the age of 57 who fell out of the workplace were not going to get back in.  I was over 57. 

Now I’m 64. There, I said it. And I am employed! Dream job? Not exactly. Two part-time jobs keep me dashing between home and Bridgeport, New York and Brooklyn. Sometimes I wake up and I have no idea where I am. But it’s good! We’re out of debt and looking forward to a retirement that might include something more than cat food. I’m teaching acting in a University. I started playing golf! I really like it and, thanks to my very skilled coach/son, am getting… well, not embarrassing. There is promise for peaceful times ahead. So it upsets me that, just as I find myself thinking less about “Things To Do When You’re Dead”, I’m thinking about “What To Do While You're Dying”. 

Whoa, did I say that? I mean, did I write that? No, I’m not dying. I’m not even depressed! Who has the time? I am however angry that I am indeed getting old. Not just older; Old.

Okay, we all get old. We’re getting older every second. From the moment we are born we begin the relentless journey toward death. And, if we’re very lucky, we get to experience being old. Or is that luck? Is it, rather, some sort of punishment?

I don’t feel good about this line of thought. No one should ever die young. But getting old… It doesn’t make me happy. There are aches and pains that have no logical reason to be there in my estimation. Arthritis! Osteoporosis! Spondylosis. This can’t be happening to ME! I eat well, exercise, am not overweight…really. And yet I have lost ¼ of an inch! The bitch nurse at my internist’s office said I lost ½ an inch but the nurse at my gynecologist said it’s only ¼ of an inch so I’m going with her. Still, I’m shorter! Where did it go? 

And I hurt all the time! My right side is a complete disappointment: my neck, my spine, my hip. Sometimes I can’t feel some toes. Most times my ring finger and pinky tingle. I’m on pain pills and anti-inflammatories. I go to physical therapy, not because it will bring me relief but to keep my skeleton from collapsing altogether like some Halloween toy. Yes, I’ve had a few accidents: the moron in the pick-up truck who decided he was going to make that left despite the fact that my car was already there; the raked aisle at the theatre that decided to level off as I led students to their seats causing me to trip over a floor that was suddenly there. A person should be able to go back and re-sue these people when, years later, a consequence you never imagined occurs. 

There was this woman on the next table at physical therapy. She was old. My mom is 86 and this woman looked like she could have been HER mother! And then she proudly told the therapist she was going to be 75 next year! I might have given myself whiplash turning to look at her more carefully but my neck doesn’t turn that way anymore. Okay, the women in my family have always aged well. But this was ridiculous! I cannot be 10 years from THAT! I refuse!

And that’s the crux of it. I refuse to be old. Another lady at PT was curled into a question mark with osteoporosis. If that’s what lies ahead, give me a bottle of Tequila and a fast car. 

My friend thinks I’m nervous about this; that I am worried. I am NOT worried. I am pissed off! I will NOT go gentle into that good night! My idea of retirement is having the leisure to start acting again! It is NOT about peppering my calendar with doctor’s appointments like they were social engagements to be looked forward to! And it is NOT about sitting around and watching the days go by in an endless thread of doing nothing because I can’t move! This cannot be what my life was for. I refuse. I categorically refuse!