by Myra Marcus
I was sitting at an outdoor café recently, next to a small group of women in their 80s. They were deeply engrossed in conversation and since I was within earshot, I decided to eavesdrop — unobtrusively, I hoped. They were celebrating the birthday of one of their group, and the conversation had veered to the subject of aging. There was a moment of silence and then I heard one woman blurt out, “How did this happen? How did we get to be this old?”
I asked myself that same question and tried to stave off the inevitable dread that comes with the topic. I told myself that I wasn’t like those women. I was “only” in my 60s, not in my 80s like them, but I was nonetheless overcome with panic, and even a bit of self-reproach for having moved about in my life, flitting around, oblivious to the fact that all our lives are finite and temporary. I should have been more attentive to the unavoidable eventuality all along, I know that, but as long as my mother was alive, I could always pretend that death was still at least a generation away. Unfortunately, my mom died about a year ago, and my generational protection disappeared. Now, just writing about my mortality causes me to shudder with fear. I have to force myself to take a few yoga breaths just to calm down.
So it seems that I’m on a mission to redefine my relationship with my own aging. Getting older is inevitable, I recognize that, but that doesn’t make it any more tolerable. Do you know that I used to purchase a full-priced movie ticket rather than take advantage of reduced rates for seniors? Just for fear of being “outed” as an old person? The sense of shame at belonging in the senior segment of the population was too much for me to bear. With each birthday, though, the despair has loomed larger and closer, with that same recriminating query of “How did this happen?” echoing in my mind.
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