Nearly 60 now, I’m no spring chicken. That’s okay. I enjoy the process of aging most of the time. It’s empowering even though there are downsides. The reality of my demise is always with me. I’m not afraid of it; but I am acutely aware of all the changes inside and out.
Lately I’ve come to notice a lattice of details that point to my future. I feel connected to my parents and grandmothers more and more each day: their clutter and bygone style; aches and illnesses; and slightly grungy homes. They are gradually becoming my style, my aches, my grunge. Some days I feel 80 rather than 60.
It’s not bad. I’ve left the “impress people” era and embraced a life where I can focus on enjoying things in my own way. Question my choices, but I’m impervious to your opinion. I live to express my sense of beauty in every aspect of life.
I take joy in the jungle of my garden, futilely pulling weeds and planting seeds. My botanical color experiments delight me as I learn from hands-on trial and error. My fashion style is comfortable and colorful. My days are slow paced with fewer commitments. My thoughts are more compassionate towards everyone including myself.
I clean my house to a different standard. If there’s cat hair under the sofa, it doesn’t matter because I can’t see it. That’s partly because I can’t bend down easily. And when I do, my glasses fall off and then I really can’t see anything. I know the cat hair is there. It’s too much effort to do anything about it. I will get to it when I have a burst of energy and a keen desire for it to be gone. And so it goes for most other household tasks. They aren’t going anywhere and I will do them when those tasks bring me joy or relief.
Priorities have shifted. I am happy to create accommodations for myself. Daily alarms ensure medicine is taken and pill boxes keep all of that straight because my whip-sharp working memory is getting dull. It is Sunday and I did take the pill I was supposed to. Whew. I have a candy dish full of ibuprofen instead of sweets.
There are closets full of mementos from my past. It’s clutter and I know it, but it’s hard to release. There’s circus equipment unlikely to be used again; musical instruments my fingers struggle to strum for longer than 30 minutes; clothing whose style is making a comeback; and sheets from the bed that we got rid of in 2015 to make space for a desk.
And that desk has a strata of reminders – sticky notes, a daily diary (maybe from this year, maybe not), and paperclipped piles of important things – to compensate for my brain fog. Half finished drawings and sketches comingle with the pens that I used to draw them. My computer keyboard is slightly discolored from time and crumbs. My monitor displays large text at extra brightness.
My computer is essential. I have a lot to say and I’m not afraid to say it now. I want to share my knowledge and earned wisdom, whatever it might be. And so I write blog posts and ebooks and tutorials. I have many ideas for projects but I don’t have time or energy to implement them. Do you need some ideas? I’ll share mine with you.
Social media connects me to friends and family. My online rants feel like they have weight. My advice is sometimes Liked! But despite virtual connections, the spectre of loneliness hangs near. It’s uncertain who might disappear next. Sometimes friends just stop posting…are they making a statement? Are they dead or did the algorithm bury them?
I can see now that there are economic factors to the shabby state of older folks’ dwellings. Our house is new now, but it will need maintenance and repairs – probably a bunch all at once when the various 10 year warranties expire. It’s an eventuality I should budget for; Mom had a special bank account for house repairs. I imagine that like my housecleaning tasks, I’ll stretch maintenance cycles out until eventually I decide they aren’t worth the cost or trouble.
We “bought it for life” without even realising. We still use a table from 1998, a carpet bought at IKEA in 2005, and kitchenware from decades ago. Little things, too: a brass pepper grinder from the early 90s; a ruler that’s measured 25 years and who knows how many centimeters; and that can of pears in the pantry. Yeah, it’s already been 7 years but maybe I’ll get around to making the dessert I planned long ago.
And when we purchase an appliance now, I do wonder if it will outlive me.
So I shop a little less. With my acquired tolerance for imperfection, I wear my slightly stained shirts (hello, era of dropping food on myself) and keep using the dish with a chip in it. Twenty years ago, I’d have replaced them but I’m saving up; the air conditioners require service this year.
The older me accepts help more easily and gratefully. I know I can’t do everything for myself forever. If you want to vacuum up the cat hair, that would be fine. I will reward you with a pear dessert and joyful stories of the old days.
