My good friend’s daughter made an insightful statement just the other day. She was telling of her big day of shopping, purchasing this and that, and concluded with an encounter with an “old” lady who was nothing short of rude.
“How old was she?” my friend inquired.
“She was like 50 years old!” the young filly replied.
Fifty and old in the same sentence? Why, I swear, hearing something like that is enough to make a gal choke on her prune juice.
Therefore, I, Lori A. Clinch, am here to proclaim that 50 is not old.
In fact, 50 is like the new 40, as far as I’m concerned. I’m 50 and I still have most of my teeth, my hair and although I have lost my up-close vision, I still have sight of what is important.
I can’t remember what that is, mind you, but I certainly have sight of it.
I am seasoned, that’s what I am. Seasoned and experienced. Although I am no guru, sitting on top of the mountain where youths come seeking wisdom, a person doesn’t just live for 50 years and not learn a thing or two along the way.
I have learned not to procrastinate the important stuff, to pay the credit card bills long before they are due and that a hiding spot is not a good hiding spot if one can’t remember where the hiding spot is.
You can’t just purchase that kind of wisdom in the checkout counter at Walmart.
Yet, my sons like to tell me 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.
It’s almost enough to make you want to remove certain people from the will.
I suppose there may be some indication I’m aging. For instance, I have 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.
I suppose if I am getting old, I should consider myself lucky to have my beloved spouse, Pat, to age right along with me. It is comforting to have someone accompany me on the front porch on a warm day, to split a bowl of oatmeal on the cold ones and to finish my sentences when I forget what I’m going to say.
It really helps when Pat remembers where we are going, what we are going to do when we get there and that we went to the bank for something more than just the free candy. You just can’t buy that kind of love and commitment.
I am also thrilled he remembers the names of our close friends, especially since most of them prefer not being referred to as “Old What’s His Face.”
Yet, life with that wonderful husband of mine is not all wine and roses. Why just the other day I took a close look in the mirror and as I was contemplating a touch-up job to cover my roots, I saw that most of my regrowth was peppered with gray hair.
“Oh no!” I exclaimed as I put on my reading glasses to see if I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing.
“What’s wrong,” my Pat asked as he walked into the room.
“Look at all of this gray hair!” I said as I pointed to my head.
Loving me as he does, Pat then dropped his glasses to the end of his nose and leaned in for a closer look. As he turned my head toward the light and took a gander, he said in a kind and soothing voice, “Oh, Lori, that’s not gray hair.”
“It’s not?” I asked with great relief.
“Nope,” he replied as he moved his glasses back into position. When he was walking away he simply added, “That’s just a bald spot. Surely nothing a comb-over wouldn’t fix.”
Oh yes, with sympathetic comments like that, he is going to be a hoot to grow old with.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].