GOG

Growing old gracefully. Gracefully growing old. Growing gracefully older. Hum – no matter how I turn it around, it still seems out of reach. Pity that, as the phrase has such a nice ring to it; sounds so beguilingly simple. Something that anyone who put their mind to it might achieve. Of course it can only be regarded as simple if in fact it is something that a person really wants to do. And therein lies the rub.

We none of us want to grow old, but there is little that we can do about that. I suspect that everyone who graduated from high school in 1961 is hoping to put this whole process on hold at least for the next six months. This August I will attend my fiftieth high school reunion where I see myself standing around (well, maybe sitting around) with a lot of people I haven’t seen in 50 years, each of us telling the other how good we look, all the while assuring ourselves that we couldn’t possibly look as old as the other guy. (The hotel could surely charge an enhanced rate at these events if they promised to remove all of the mirrors!)

So, it is a given that it is impossible to escape the first part of the equation – the growing old part – oddly enough, if anything the graceful part is more difficult because it requires an “attitude adjustment” that is pretty hard to get my head around. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think it is in the cards. As a consequence I am getting a little worn out with all the press the notion manages to generate. Yesterday I got an email from a friend informing me that she has cleared out her closets, sold the house she has lived in for forty years and moved across the country into a one bedroom efficiency apartment close to her kids. With annoying regularity marketing materials from one of the local assisted living facilities show up in my mail box informing me that I can take the stress out of my life and that of my family, if I just sign up. Much as I might give lip service to admiring the selfless acts of friends who downsize and relocate to facility that offers a continuum of care, I don’t see myself handing the keys to the car over any time soon, “I’d rather give them to you now than to have you take them away later!” Not too likely.

In my case, getting the right attitude about it is only half the battle. Achieving a state of physical grace is equally elusive. If recent events are any indication, not only will I “not go quietly” but I won’t go “upright” either. A case in point. A couple of weeks ago, I topped off a great walk with ‘the boys’ – Barley and Malbec –with a face plant. I’ve been perfecting face plants on the ski slopes for years but this was the first time I had tried out my technique on the pavement. Without overstating the obvious, there is a vast difference between snow and asphalt, particularly when you lead with your lips. The interaction between my two leashed dogs and a friendly lab on “voice leash” was the direct cause of my shift from vertical to horizontal. Beyond that, the details are fuzzy.

With blood dripping onto my coat and hands the boys and I made it home. Within the hour, my upper lip looked like a bratwurst. Later on that day I was in the grocery store and made a point of telling anyone who even glanced in my direction exactly what I had done. I’d much prefer to be thought of as clumsy as vane. Without an explanation, I was sure to be pegged as “Botox gone bad.” Fred got a little nervous when folks looked from me to him, even though I assured him that if he’d bring me a bouquet of flowers I would tell anyone who listen that he didn’t mean to do it!

Before the day was over, it became obvious that I’d had a slight concussion – nausea and chills were my first clue. I should know; again, I am no stranger to that phenomenon. I have putting my skull to the test ever since I was about five and stood on the top of a fruit picking ladder, only to have the ladder go to the left while I flew to the right. The strongest evidence on that occasion that I had hurt my head was the fact that my brother, who had suggested I climb to the top of the ladder in the first place, convinced me that telling mother about it was a bad idea. “It would only upset her.”

So for a couple of days I had a fat lip, an abrasion or two on my face and a swollen and tender hand. As is often the case in my life, it could have been a lot worse. This fall that could have/should have resulted in a broken wrist or nose, chipped teeth and stitches, to say nothing about having to replace my expensive new glasses, left me with a fat lip and nothing more! So there’s no take away here about being more careful in the future; rather, it is cause for celebration. A high five for good luck and strong bones!

A few days later, I loaded my red metal wheel barrow up with tools and rolled it down to Shipwreck Corner to help with a neighborhood work party. As long as our local garden club, the Sewer Sisters, has been maintaining the landscaping on the corner, I have reported for duty on the business end of my wheelbarrow. The following day, I woke up “old” – no graceful, no gradual about it. Every movement was painful. My neck was so stiff that I had to rotate my entire body if I wanted to look at something over my shoulder. I took the stairs slowly, one at a time. I ached – all over. Flu type aches minus the flu.

A few days later I discussed all this body stuff at length with Swede, my trainer. I generally confer with him before I call my doctor partly because Swede doesn’t preface his remarks with prepositional phrases such as “at your age. . .” I suppose he is an enabler of sorts, as he generally advises me to get back in the game. His theory was that since my body had suffered a significant trauma from the face plant a few days earlier, the added strain of hauling my wheel barrow a mile and a half was overload and my body said, enough already. We focused on stretching exercises for a couple of days, I had a great massage thanks to Mary Beth, and well – I am back at it, wheel barrow and all.

So, here I am at what could be an opportune time to evaluate my life and decide which activities I might forgo in the days ahead. Create a “been there, done that” list of things I really don’t need to do anymore. Starting with face plants! Of course, I don’t really want to repeat on that, but reinventing myself as careful and cautious sounds boring at best.

Intellectually, I am quite aware of the inherent tension that accompanies life at this stage of the continuum as a good part of my professional career was consumed with helping clients and their families cope with the vicissitudes of aging. Certainly, I don’t want to make life more difficult than necessary for my family. On the other hand, now that my body is back to normal I think that I will stay in denial a little bit longer. Like Scarlet O’Hara, I’ll worry about it tomorrow! Maybe then I will consider living gracefully and all that might entail. It is just that right now, I am not ready to commit!