A few weeks ago, a guy I went to high school with, posted a picture of a receipt on Facebook. He was highlighting the fact that he received a “senior discount” on the item he was buying. Earlier this week, another friend posted a picture of her newly acquired AARP card. Yesterday I was off work, and stopped by the grocery store to get five or six items. The parking lot was packed! Then I realized it was senior day. The store was filled with little old people. Some smiled and seemed friendly; some were rude and practically hit me with their buggies trying to get the last bags of Bridge Mix. Some got around pretty well. Some could barely walk. I saw a couple of people with adult diapers in their carts. They were packed in that store like sardines.
Then….it hit me. I’m very, very scared of getting old.
Before I go any farther; save your hate mail. I don’t dislike old people. But I also don’t group them into one big category. They are like young people...or any other type of people. Some are nice, some are not. So it’s not that I don’t like them. It’s that I’m just not ready to be old. I’m not ready to SMELL old. I’m not ready to buy my shoes and clothes solely based on comfort. I’m not ready for menopause. And even though nature is already starting to play this cruel joke on me, I’m not ready for my face to sag. Or my arms! Or legs! Or any part of me! Hell, I’m still having issues with people calling me “ma’am”!
I’m a believer in being the best you can be at any age. And at making the most of the age you are right now. I’m trying to do that. Losing a little more weight and getting more exercise would help, but all in all I’m doing it.
So in typical Mary fashion, I’m trying to figure out why I feel this way. The first answer that springs to mind is that I haven’t accomplished what I want in life. I’m not ready for the game to wind down, because I still want to play, and play hard! But I think I sat out for awhile...too long; and when I came back in, it was past halftime. We’re in the third quarter, baby.
There’s no way to go back. I can’t get my elasticity or my fertile eggs back. There are no “do overs”. So I have to find a way to be happy with where I am right now. I have to be the best “50” I can be. Then the best “60”, “70”, and so on, until I shed this body and move on.
It may not even be in the cards for me to live to be old. And if it is, I’ll keep trying to remember that sometimes its the last two quarters of the game that count the most, and they are sometimes the most exciting anyway.
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