Contrary to popular belief, I am not getting old. I still have most of my teeth, I read the newspaper without bifocals (sort of) and I can make my way across the floor without support.
Yet, my sons like to tell me that I’m old and sometimes the little whippersnappers even like to chant out my age in unison.
They respond to my stories of “back in the day” with eye rolls and get a big kick out of putting a mirror under my nose, when I nap, to see if I’m still breathing.
Where, I ask you, is the love?
I suppose there may be some indication that I’m aging. For instance, I’ve noticed that I don’t pop up out of a chair like I used to. I certainly lack the ability to read tiny inscriptions, and Lord help me if I can open my own jelly jars.
There are other signs as well. For instance, I recently found something that I have been looking for, for ages, but I can’t remember why I ever wanted it. I then put it somewhere really special so I could find it when I needed to.
I now have no idea where that is.
Somewhere along the line, I lost my short-term memory. I would tell you just exactly when it happened, but I don’t remember.
This is especially challenging when I misplace important things like my cell phone (which of course was on silent), my son’s car keys, and just today — the family dog.
What a knee-slapper that was!
Then there’s the fact that people reply to everything I say with, “You already told me that!”
I swear, it’s enough to make a girl not want to share her stories!
These days I only wear comfortable shoes because why in the world would I wear anything else? After all, isn’t life difficult enough?
There’s the shopping list I made but then forgot where I stashed it, the balking at the high prices of coffee, and the audacity of the gum-smacking cashier who offers my young self a senior discount.
The unadulterated nerve!
Then, when I finally found our car in the parking lot, I shouted, “Praise be!” but my bliss was short-lived when I realized I had forgotten my purse in the store.
While I used to love nothing more than sleeping in, these days my eyes pop open at 4 a.m. By the time the alarm clock goes off, I’m throwing back the covers and calling out to no one in particular, “Thank God that’s over!”
I have decided that I like my reflection better when I’m looking at myself in the mirror without my reading glasses. I’m more than a little bummed that it takes me twice as long to look half as good.
Last week I found a long, gray hair in the bathroom sink and I didn’t secretly wonder if my beloved spouse was having an affair with an older woman. I knew exactly where it had come from because I have been plucking gray hairs to beat the band.
Those of you in the know will agree when I say gray hairs don’t pluck easily. For one thing, they seem to make friends with all of the normal hairs around them who hang on to the coarse strand and make it impossible to get the sucker out without taking out a whole village of good stock.
Word to the wise.
Last Friday night I had nothing to do and better yet, I had the TV all to myself. I was happy as a lark. I might not have been living it up with my homies and hanging with my peeps, but no one was around to notice that it took me two tries to get up off of the couch.
That might have been a sure sign of getting older, but I’m too old to care.
A couple of weeks ago I told our Lawrence that I thought it would be funny if my friend and I dressed up like a couple of old ladies for Halloween. He looked at me and smiled and asked, “Isn’t that what you do every day?”
Then he turned to his younger brother and chuckled, “Sometimes she just makes it so easy.”
He can just yuk it up all day. Meanwhile, I think I’ll put Lawrence’s car keys somewhere really special.
Lori Clinch is the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by email at [email protected].