The Christmas season is a time of joy and cheer, but I recently learned something that makes me a little depressed.
I am, by the standards of our government, elderly. Well, I fall in the “early elderly” which goes from age 65 to 74. After that, if I’m still kicking, I’ll fall into the status of “late elderly.”
Of course, age is nothing but a number. Still, I am afraid that now that I’ve learned I am elderly, I’m going to have to change my lifestyle.
Funny thing is that I always heard that wisdom comes with age. I know a lot of stuff just because I have a good memory but I’m pretty sure you’re not going to want to come to me for advice. If, for instance, you inquire as to whether I think you should go bungee jumping, I will of course tell you to go for it.
After all, what’s life without some adventures that scare you to death?
My wardrobe needs a redo. I have long threatened Grandgirl III that I am going to start wearing polyester pant suits, orthopedic shoes and call her boyfriend “that boy.”
Looks like this might be the time to do it which means my two drawers of tee shirts with sayings will need to go.
After all, an elderly woman can’t be running around proclaiming “Hotter than a two-dollar pistol” on her chest, can she?
Now that I’m elderly, I suppose I ought to make a bucket list - you know, an itemization of things to do before I die.
I haven’t bothered because, based on my family history, I probably have a good 20 years before I got to my eternal rest.
And if I start on the proverbial bucket list now, I may run out of things to do and have to make a new one.
Thanks to various accidents and operations, I have a walker and a nice collection of canes at the house. I’ve always seen those as recovery tools but maybe I should drag a cane out of the closet and keep it with me just in case.
This new, elderly life may have some advantages too. Get ready, kids, because I’m drawing up a schedule of how you can take care of your aged, widowed mother.
Bringing me meals a couple of times a week would be a great start. And kicking in to spend time cleaning my house shouldn’t be a problem considering my status in society.
I can save a lot at the gas station by insisting they need to drive me around. I’ll reward them with a drive-through milkshake and regale them with the story of how my mother just adored chocolate malts until they roll their eyes the minute I open my mouth.
See, there’s another thing I’ve got get started on. My conversations with the kids and their kids are pretty much what I’ve been lately and what they’ve been up to. I can’t remember the last time I trotted out a “back in my day” tale but I’m sure I can come up with some.
I can tell them about the building in our little hometown up north that started out as a bank, then had a restaurant in it and then something else and is a bank again now.
Who doesn’t want to hear about going to the Bank Grill with my mother after school and flipping through a comic book as she and owner chatted?
Or how the local hairdresser, Toots (yes, that’s what everyone called her) gave every one over the age of 40 the same cut-and-perm hairstyle.
Even better, I’ll drag out the boxes and boxes of photos I’ve taken over the years and tell them the story behind each one.
“Now, kids, this picture of the waves was taken at Pensacola Beach back in 1980-something when your Aunt Lynn lived there ... and oh, look! Here’s a picture of our campsite at that lake in Michigan, oh, what was it called ....”
You know, this being elderly thing might not be too bad. One family rule based down through the generations is to respect one’s elders. And I think that since I am officially elderly, I have carte blanche to do and say whatever I want wit the excuse that “Hey, I’m old!
