Marginalizing

I guess it goes with the territory, growing into maturity, or “seniorhood” as some would put it, has its bennies and it’s not-so bennies. None of the following is done on purpose to put me, or any other senior in our place as an aging member within an at-worship youth society whose adulation unconsciously proposes the idea that years lacking advanced numbers are worth veneration. For sure, good buddy, you haven’t done anything wrong, you just didn’t realize that what you thought was a gracious move was interpreted otherwise by an old codger like me.  No one wants to be old. Nope! Watching youthful workers accomplish in a fraction what us senior types used to accomplish in good time are now forced to observe the current difference that painfully exists. And, sometimes we have to acknowledge that it is time to put up the chainsaw for another who can wield it with confidence, something that slowly dawns on an aging mind that does not see his vulnerabilities as inevitabilities.

There are countless written and unwritten mutations on the theme of aging along with incessant chants about how to grow old and love it. No one escapes it. It happens to everyone. That is, if they are privileged to grow old. Let me let you in on a secret: those of us who have grown old do not feel inside that we are old, the stark realization only comes when we look in the mirror or are stiffly reminded every morning of our age. Otherwise, what’s inside doesn’t seem to age. Given that, why complain? ‘Cuz It’s in our nature to do so when aches and pains have sought out our bodies as if to let us know how out of control we really are. There’s no going back. We can wish for it, try for renewal but it all evades us like a rocket headed for destruction. The steering mechanisms in such a ship are created as limited. And so are we. It’s the uselessness syndrome that causes us to think about our limitations and observe our stance as on the non-inclusive margins of family, friends and foe. We are reminded that we have shrunk from the center of the party to being the man in the corner wearing a hat proudly bought at the Salvation Army second hand store for a bargained price he negotiated to fifty cents from a single dollar. A large victory given the manager was there to observe it all while serving his self-appointed time at the register. 

Time gets away from us. We can look back at any life and see the effects of a constant second hand on its circular run. It only slowly dawns on one that aging has taken place, we are no longer maturing, that’s for youngsters who do now what we did then, we’ve passed that milestone long ago. No, we are aging. It slips up on you, takes your wrinkled hand and bends your knees into the next chapter of a long and, sometime heartless journey walking to… nowhere? That’s it, a walk to nowhere. That’s how it feels when the body ultimately calls for a sit down as exhaustion takes root. You watch as the fractured? parade of young characters goes on without you. It is a hard watch.  Nothing worse than feeling you are not up to your former challenges. Life has prearranged to force you to make do with what you have. 

At the late part of life, it isn’t much that we who are demonstrably past youth have, unless you desire to gather from us a history or even an account of what bothers us to walk. On that matter, I am now the proud owner of a walking device used to assist me, especially in the a.m. when stiffness takes over like spaghetti must be before boiling. I prefer the after boiling stuff and wish it would apply to an aged body. I would take the hot bath to limber it up if it weren’t so difficult to leap over the side of the tub while being reminded my inflexibility is akin to spaghetti before water and heat are applied, only I fear that I will break into a thousand pieces if pushed to leap. So, I grab onto a cane (nearly worthless for me) or my newly purchased collapsible and wheeled walker and trust its capability to glide over the rough spots. Others receive me as if the impairment I now display is non-existent. 

I had hoped it would not come to this. Not too long ago, while observing an elderly person walking their walker at the slow pace it seems to require of a person, I remarked that what we had just seen is what I fear most about growing old. Now I am old and I have a walker. My Physical Therapist recommended it and wants me to use it on the street I live on. My neighbors, anyone, everyone, will surely see me. How’s that for a future?