How to Get Old Before You Die

My introduction to being an old person occurred one day when I pulled out of a parking lot and positioned myself next to a mobile pet grooming van that was stopped at the light. 

The driver of the van interpreted my action as cutting in line. She rolled down her window and started screaming every epithet she could muster. Then, at the moment the light was about to change, when she had exhausted every word in the insult category, she pointed her finger, forced her voice to an even higher decibel level, shrieked “AARP!!!” and drove through the now-green light. 

It was’t hearing all the awful words that bothered me.  It wasn’t that at least six adorable, well-groomed cartoon canines were witness to the words.  It wasn’t even that other drivers were, I am sure, witness as well. It was  the “AARP” that got to me. I had been officially labeled. I was old. 

After that, the downhill slide began. I noticed that wherever I went, people were rushing to open doors for me. My children began cautioning me about steps and bumpy sidewalks.  I looked around and realized that I was socializing with women who had greying hair and were wearing awful-looking comfortable shoes. My mailbox suddenly filled with invitations to financial seminars and tours of independent living facilities. 

Because I believe that, whatever age I am, should be a powerful representation of what that age should be, I searched my brain for how this should manifest. I watched people my age in the gym, on the street, sitting with me in doctors’ offices. What I saw were people who I suspected had the same thoughts as mine running through their heads: Will anyone notice that I don’t walk as rapidly on the treadmill or set the pin as high on the resistance machines?  Or I would be sitting in the reception area of the doctor’s office feeling like I was just in this very doctor’s office not that long ago. Or I would be walking down the street at my usual clip and wonder why everyone seemed to be passing me on the street as I moved toward my destination.  I would ask myself why everyone seemed to be in such a hurry. 

None of my observations helped. I realized I was in uncharted territory, left alone to figure out what the hell I was expected to do. About the only thing I knew for sure was that comfort shoes were not an option.  I slowly came to the realization that, if I was struggling with this, maybe others were as well. Maybe the long, healthier lives this boomer generation has been gifted with poses some kind of opportunity.  Maybe it’s time for us to define ourselves, and to explain it to doctors and to social commentators. 

I decided to do this in honor of the pet-grooming woman who labeled me publicly for the first time. She threw down the gauntlet. I now accept the challenge. I do this because one day, someone will label her, and all the newly-coiffed cartoon dogs in the world won’t be enough to guide her.  And, even if I won’t be here by then, my words and my thoughts will.  Here’s to you, pet-grooming person. Little do you know what you set in motion.