We just finished our fourth cruise. Probably
because we’ve never been on the mass-market megaships, the demographic with
which we travel tends to be older. Carolyn and I are people watchers, and even
with our current cohort, there’s plenty to see: interesting fashion choices,
rocking, twisting (great?) grandparents, numerous “Greta Gotrocks” flashing the
bling.... Any temptation I have to judge, however, must be tempered by the
realization that the observer can also be the observed!
It has taken me a long time to be (almost)
completely comfortable with myself; now that I’m at least closing in on
satisfaction with who I am, I begin to wonder if I am in danger of
becoming the stereotype of the “aging hipster, trying to look cool.” Being cool
was never a goal I wanted to attain nor an image I tried to project. The one
thing I learned at Hamilton College (where I managed to accumulate almost a
year’s worth of credits in my two years, so what I did learn obviously wasn’t too
heavy on the academic side) was that if you have to try to be cool, you ain’t. (I
need to add this to my Rules
o’ Life.)
I’ve often thought, and perhaps even said to students, and others, I suppose,
“Grow up!” or “Act your age!” If so, I’m
sorry, because I’m struggling with what “acting your age” really means. Who
gets to determine what is age appropriate, especially for adults? Who has the
right to make that judgment?
While I don’t see myself as the prototypical
senior citizen (I’m reminded of my mother’s ongoing complaint about living at
Friendship Village, “These people are all so old!”), my age-number, sadly, can
no longer be ignored. I now qualify for socialized medicine, full-benefit
social security is right around the corner, a 15-year old AARP card sits
comfortably in my wallet, “senior discounts” come my way without either a
request or ID.... I must tell you, I’m not all that thrilled, although it
certainly beats the alternative of my age being irrelevant because my ashes are
in a box tucked away in the corner of a basement or even displayed on a mantle.
I’m actually, for the most part, proud of my
age and the way I’ve lived my life, but I’m reluctantly starting to wonder if I
need to self-impose some behavioral and/or appearance/fashion limits because of
it. I admit to above average vanity: I was “metro” before metro was cool (if,
in fact, it ever was or ever will be), but it took me too long to accept that
part of me and I really don’t want to give it up. (Sigh) Maybe it’s time to
forget about my appearance, to not worry about the growth of my ear and
nose-hair gardens or eyebrow scragglers long enough to weave a basket.
My body constantly reminds me of certain age-related
limitations. I no longer demonstrate sliding technique in softball for fear
I’ll look like an “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” commercial for Life Alert. I
don’t know if the pain in my elbow is from overuse, arthritis, or gout (this
matters because then I have to decide which pharmaceutical remedy to add to my
ever-growing collection of daily doses). Every day is an adventure, because
while I don’t know what’s going to cause pain, I do know that something will before I fall asleep.
My life features more daily aspirations than inspirations. I’ve learned, much to my chagrin, that the
“Old Fart” baseball cap/t-shirt is more an early warning system than crude
humor. I gave up a great job, in part because I no longer had the energy or
motivation to give to my kids what they deserved (nor did I have the energy to keep fighting a system that continually encroaches on the professional autonomy of teachers).
It’s not that I work at trying to look
young; it’s really more about trying to look how I want to see myself, although I do admit that I am also unwilling to look any older than I have to. I mean, I don’t even want to shop at Abercrombie
& Fitch (for a variety of reasons; I certainly never was close to their
target demographic) or Hollister, but neither do I want to be consigned to an
image arbitrarily assigned as appropriate for someone of a certain age. I know
dowdy is an unfair and unflattering adjective usually reserved for women,
but.... I’m not now, and I’m not sure I ever will be ready to give up looking how I want, even if someone else (young
or old) thinks I look silly. I refuse to accept limitations imposed by
conformists with a rigid sense of acceptability or style.
Neither do I want to become the object of
ridicule, however. That has always been my Achilles heel. While I know, intellectually, that
people aren’t really thinking about me (Rule #7),
I have always been overly self-conscious. Who knows, I might have actually enjoyed dancing without the
benefit of therapeutic beverages. Being myself, however age-inappropriate some
might find it, remains a struggle, just less of one.
The pace of my successful search for answers and
self-acceptance continues to slow even as the rate of my declining number of
days seems to accelerate.
Well, I think I’ll make that Jimmy Buffett song* (see
title above) my new ring-tone and call it a night. It is, after all, almost 10
p.m, and I still have my daily 30+-minute skin care and oral hygiene regimens
to finish.
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