Seems Like Old Times - October 2009

Today is my birthday, and this date also marks the beginning of the last year I will be in my 50s. 50s! I remember turning 50 and feeling grateful to be alive. But at the same time I knew that 50 felt a bit over the hill. Now, what I would give to be 50 again? I already have some friends who have turned 60 and others in their 70s. But it is different when it happens to you – which for me will be October 28, 2010. Sure, I know that 60 is the new 50, but 50 seemed pretty shocking at the time. And while the alternative to aging isn’t preferable at all, it seems odd to be what used to be considered old.

“They” say you are only as young as you feel, and that’s comforting for some of us. I can still run around in sweatshirts and jeans, driving my convertible and wearing a baseball cap. Yet, there are plenty of signs that age is creeping up on me. If you are anywhere near my generation, you have probably seen the signs yourself.

Can you picture yourself in any of these situations, or have these already happened to you?

You read the obituaries every day just to see who you know – and to make sure your name isn’t there. You also want to verify that these people are much older than you.

You belong to AARP and so do your friends, and you discuss articles you read in the AARP magazine. You’re really into it if your BFF goes to the AARP Annual Meeting and claims, “We had a lot of fun.”

When someone you know loses a parent, you can commiserate from personal experience. But secretly you are thinking, “She still had parents?”

You go to an event of any sort and you’re more concerned with how many rows of stairs you have to climb than whether the seats are good.

You want to get home before it gets dark. And going out after dark? Boy, that better be for something really special.

When you drive and there is the least possibility you might get lost you turn down the radio, as if silence will magically guide you to your destination.

When you give directions to someone, most of your landmarks are places that don’t exist anymore or have different names – “You turn right after where Johnny’s Diner used to be. It’s on the same street as Mary’s parents used to live.”

Every gathering of friends includes a segment of the conversation devoted to ailments – yours, mine and someone else's.

You can get a recommendation for any kind of doctor you need just by asking your friends. Someone will already have what you have or know someone who does.

You are older than the people running for president and VP (except for John McCain).

You or your friends are grandparents. How did this happen? Aren’t the kids still in pre-school, you wonder?

The baseball players getting into the Hall of Fame are younger than you are, and you remember when they were rookies.

Ira is no longer that nebishy guy from your Hebrew school class but is now part of your “retirement income.”

You realize that with your orthotics in your very plain, flat shoes you are this close to wearing orthopedic shoes and those stockings that roll around your ankles. Can the Eleanor Roosevelt look be far behind?

You make noises with virtually every move you make – getting up from a chair, lifting something, etc. – that sound like your father used to make.

You watch the TV commercials for pharmaceuticals and are sure you have all the symptoms of every disease and condition they cure. Once I walked in on a commercial for some kind of condition and thought for sure I had that, too, until I realized it was for prostate problems.

You can name all of the TV series 82-year-old Cloris Leachman has starred in, because you have seen all of them, and not in reruns.

You watch exercise shows that include sitting on a chair and tapping your toe (see “Sit and Be Fit” on PBS).

You remember when gas cost 32 cents a gallon, stamps were six cents and a movie was 50 cents – and you talk about this to your children, grandchildren or much younger friends, who find it (and you) boring.

You remember when Alaska and Hawaii became states.

You remember when Joan Rivers’ face actually moved. And you notice when people have a little too much cosmetic surgery – not that you’d rule out just a bit for yourself.

You remember when only drunken sailors and bikers had tattoos, and you find it a little disconcerting to see someone with gray hair and a butterfly on her ankle (or worse).

You decide that the gray appearing in your brown hair merely adds a sparkle to your blonde highlights.

You go to the supermarket to get eggs and you come back with two large bags – but no eggs.

You talk to yourself, but you figure that’s OK because no one listens to you anyway.

When you hear the U2 song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” it reminds you that you never did find whatever it was you were looking for, and you only hope that you will remember to look for it again.

You go into a room but don’t know why (see previous item).

You see the Senior Citizens bus zipping around town and wonder what route it takes.

Your technology IQ, which once was admirably high, now lags behind the typical 8-year-old. Texting is a big challenge.

You can’t complete even one song on “Guitar Hero.”

You remember the original versions of songs that kids hear as covers (and they are amazed that they existed before).

You find that kids not only don’t remember that Paul McCartney was in the Beatles, they don’t even know him from Wings.

You buy vitamins for people 50+ on blind faith, because you can’t read the tiny print on the label. (In my case, I buy them at Costco, where the bottle is large enough to have wheels on it and the pills are the size of a sub sandwich.)

You attend a lot of reunions, and all of them are for at least 25 years. The people you meet all tell you that you haven’t changed a bit. (Please, I beg you, don’t tell me I looked like this in high school!)

But at least I haven’t resorted to using the term “my lady friend” – yet.

It doesn’t matter that I run around in a convertible, air flowing through the hair on my head (or upper lip), baseball cap and leather jacket on. I haven’t quite reached old age, but even with macular degeneration, I can see it looming large ahead. And if you are too young to appreciate this now, trust me – someday, you’ll understand.

I hope I remember all this next year, when I turn 60.