What happens when you get old? That’s a good question, and one that I have answered differently at each stage of my life. “Old” when you are four means being like your cousin Kerry, then age thirteen. “Older” is when you date the third-year graduate student as an incoming freshman. “Aging” is a term intended to take the sting out of sixty being the new thirty. “Getting old” is the fanciful definition of indulging in midday naps on the sofa. But deeper contemplation of the actual process can begin at any time, such as during a long, overnight flight to Asia, seated between two Japanese frequent fliers.
What happens? I mean besides the obvious and ubiquitous aches and pains, forgetting the names of those most closely related, or figuring out how to clean the paper feed on the printer without a teenager’s help.
How about walking through the house wearing just one slipper, looking for the missing one—everywhere—while at the same time brushing your teeth? Good thing the electric toothbrush is on a timer and stops itself. It did take me the full two minutes to kick the barren foot under the bed to find, lo and behold, the other slipper. Or what about observing that my hand intuitively knew the right shelf to reach in the laundry room to pull down the clothes brush but did not recall which side of the brush to swipe first on the red sofa to remove the dog’s hair?
Then there is the reason I know—now—to set the timer every time I turn on a burner. I guess I could charitably chalk that one up to multitasking. However, leaving the gas burner on to toast a pot of steel-cut oats before adding the liquid results in consequences beyond those of leaving wet laundry in the washer for four days.
A bonus to getting old and thus no longer being chained mentally to endless to-do lists is that you can observe nature while driving to an appointment in the city. During the hour-long ride, you wonder, silently, at least for now, why turn signals are rarely used, even though they are standard equipment on all vehicles, even pickup trucks. When (and why?) were the windows on the driver’s side of vehicles (especially pickup trucks) darkened? You also recognize that you are the last person on the road who understands that the signs indicate speed limits, not speed suggestions. Clearly the one gaining on your rear bumper now (a pickup truck, of course) is a true believer in the suggestion rule. Old or aging, at least I’m still behind the wheel. Although, I admit, not so much at night anymore—because of deer.
Perhaps matinées were made for the elderly, now generously edited to “elders.” Selfishly, I enjoy being among the un-dyed. Somehow we can spend two and a half hours together enjoying rare and unplanned company. Strangers exchanging small talk in the lobby. Seatmates remarking on a player in the program. Laughing, sighing, applauding the first violinist’s “Lark Ascending,” soundtrack and camera in perfect sync in Out of Africa, Hermione’s step from statue to life on stage in The Winter’s Tale. Mobile phones, if there are any, are switched off, or muted, tucked in a pocket or handbag. Bowed heads are, mostly, still reserved for worship.
And yet, carrying forty-pound bags of water softener salt pellets from car to house down fifteen steps to the utility room? Not a problem. Opening a bottle of vanilla extract and trying to extract the minuscule piece of plastic-lined foil inexplicably welded to the half-inch-wide opening? Not a chance.
That’s some of getting old, but not all there is to it.
Birds whose songs I never used to notice I can now name by their calls. Then there’s opening a letter handwritten by the five-year-old grandchild, and addressed simply to Grandma. Not thinking twice when I greet the goldfish out loud, by name—Monsieur Poisson—when he swims to the food hatch every morning. But thinking twice when I carry on the conversation (however brief) in French. Now if only Morton would repackage the salt in twenty-pound bags.
