I find it hard to believe, but I think I am getting older.
When one is presented with the title “senior,” getting older should stop! After all, to bear said title with dignity and the proper decorum, one should not have to worry about a further accumulation of years.
George Burns lived to be 100 and he referred to himself as a senior with a teenage mind. Even in his nineties, he wore his toupée at a rakish angle. I always thought of George Burns as a senior - especially after Gracie died. But I never thought of him as old.
Being a senior means we are nearing the line and the end of our race. (At least that’s what our culture says.) We shouldn’t have to bear the indignity of counting years. The title “senior” has been earned and the bruises and the scars we have obtained in getting here should not be taken lightly by those who consider us old, or even antiquated.
“Wise” would be a proper description, or “seasoned” or “renowned.”
(My wife just said not to forget “over the hill,” “down to our last dollar,” and “squashed but not flattened.” She also said the best way for us not to have to count the years anymore is for it to be mandatory that each of us be bronzed when we reach 70. I wish she wouldn’t chuckle like that!)
Seventy, or three score and ten as the bible says, should be sufficient as far as the accumulation of years is concerned. After that, a state of grace should be the reward for the Trojans of time.
Wrinkles then should be sufficient unto wrinkles and arthritis unto arthritis and ulcers unto ulcers. Things (of the body, I mean) should not get any worse, but remain “as is.”
And then, again as the bible says, if by reason of strength we should have another 10 years or better, then we should be assured nothing new, as far as pain and disability, is going to take place.
Extra years to counsel and guide the young into the hallowed halls of age. (My wife just told me to get down off the chair and stop saluting the lamp. I guess I do get over-zealous when it comes to getting older than old.)
When I was born, I had no teeth and lived on warm milk. I guess I’ll reach that stage again of having no teeth and nursing a warm glass of milk. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you. Age should have more dignity than that.
As much as I disagree with it, however, I guess I’m just going to get older and my wrinkles will get their own wrinkles, and the young will continue not coming to me for advice.
I thought maybe if I concentrated hard enough, I could change the process of time, but it hasn’t worked. (My wife just said if it didn’t work when I tried to concentrate on losing weight, why would it work with time?)
Anyway, it was a shock to realize I was still getting older. It may be how the world might see me, but it isn’t how I see myself. I’m still dapper. I’m still dashing. (I hate it when my wife rolls her eyes like that and bursts into giggles.) My dashing may be done on a three-wheeled scooter now, but I still dash.
So, I think I’m going to stop counting the years and celebrate a “senior day” and not a birthday. The nice part of that is, it’s senior day every day. The party goes on and on!
And when it’s finally time to hang up the years and leave the game, there will be a jaunt in my step as I cross over the finish line and see that sign that says: “No Scooters Allowed!”
JANUARY 2014 SENIOR LIVING MAGAZINE
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