Wild Old Women, Wild Times

“Would you do something with me? That article thing can wait.”

So my five-year old grandson Alex said to me this morning. But I’m no fun anymore. I don’t want to play The Brain Game and I don’t want to push him on the swing set.

I wonder if he wants to read sports while I read the life and style section?

I’m so tired I’m in that space where I’m comparing myself to absolutely everyone I’ve ever known and everyone seems to be doing better than me.

My grandkids have worn me out in a week. I’m not talking about physically. I know I need to exercise more. My problem is: once I exercise and I’m in great shape, what do I do about my mind?

I’m so tired mentally I can’t remember things. I keep forgetting my daughter-in-law’s name. Her name is Paige and I keep calling her Diane. She and my son have been married for twenty years and luckily I still recognize her face.

This kind of thing naturally leads me to be concerned about age in general. My age in particular. Is this a precursor to everything slowly fading to black?

Everything that happens to me lately seems like something else to worry about because I’m getting older. Will I have these knees in eternity? Marjorie Pay Hinckley said if you wake up with a new pain, you can count on it being with you for the rest of your life.

When I forgot something when I was younger, I sort of knew eventually it would come back. Now, when I forget something, I greet its return like a long lost friend. I couldn’t remember the word for one of those things you put by your bed to keep the water cold, or, in my case, to keep the cat from drinking out of the glass while I brush my teeth, causing me to inadvertently drink “cat water.”

For three days, nothing came. I knew I could look it up in the Crate and Barrel catalogue, but that just seemed so lame.

The fact that I keep coming up with ways to pretend I’m sharp makes me wonder how long will I be able to fake it? I finally remembered the word “carafe.” Carafe. Admittedly, not the formula for the hydrogen bomb, but still, not outside the limits of my vocabulary.

Another thing that’s worrisome is the fact I seem to say the wrong thing a lot. When pressed, there are now things that pop out of my mouth I would have never said fifteen years ago. For example, my opinion. Not a nice opinion that would make the person happier, or a smart opinion I could pretend made them think I was brilliant, my real opinion.

That’s a definite old lady thing. I don’t go up to girls yet and tell them to take off that eye make-up, but honestly, if I hear myself say one more time, ”When I was a little girl,” I’m going to fall on my sword. In ten years will I be sitting on my front porch yelling at drivers to slow down?

The good thing about getting older is that you really begin to feel free. You can stop worrying about making a million dollars or becoming famous, because, if you become famous when you’re seventy, it’s going to be like that old joke about dogs talking: it’s not that they do it well, it’s that they can do it at all.

So like a hoary Artic explorer, my beard covered in ice, off I go into the unknown wilderness of age. Many of the things that happen are good, like showing people I like them and telling them so. I recognize happiness and unhappiness for what they are, because I realize how many of the things I complained about turned out to be the best memories.

I’m happy when I get the chance to be too busy again and feel the excitement of being challenged, but I’m not afraid to be alone anymore. Something always comes up.

I hope I won’t make a complete fool of myself as I go along and the chips turn out to be down.

Not worrying about being a fool, that’s a definite old lady thing.