6 Things About Old Age
A famous octogenarian, speaking at a banquet held in his honour, once said: “There are many advantages about growing old [long pause], but I can’t think of any of them.”
I agree with him. Now that I’m on the wrong side of eight-O, I’m frantically searching for any benefit that years have to offer.
Their disadvantages are easy to come by: my eyes and ears are showing their age; my teeth (those ivories that have chomped their way through thousands of meals) are yellowed; I suffer insomnia, yet find it impossible not to nod off when obliged to stay awake in a meeting or lecture.
“Nothing serious,” a hearty young physician whom I’ve known since his babyhood assures me, “quite normal for your age.” I resist the temptation to retort, “Listen here, Sonny . . .” and instead grit my teeth and force a smile when he advises me to “Take it easy. You’re not as young as you used to be.”
Like I need reminding. My knees creak as I try to rise in a dignified manner and I trip on the carpet as I make my way out to my car. There must be some advantage to ageing other than a Senior’s Card and discount Pensioner’s Insurance, I tell myself.
An answer becomes apparent when I arrive home and find that Son, his wife and family have come to visit. We have three hours of family fellowship, then they leave. I wash the meal dishes before tottering from room to room putting my house to rights and it occurs to me, Strange, what a mess three young children make.
Advantage #1 I can hand a grandchild back to its parents when it cries.
That needs no elaboration. A phone call later, I recognise another.
Advantage #2 I can absent myself from social commitments that afflict the young.
Nowadays, if I’m invited to one of those high-pressure sales-type “parties,” I can truthfully say, “No thank you, dear. At my age, I have everything I need!” Or (less truthfully), “I appreciate the invitation, Darl, but I’ll give the oboe recital a miss. At my age, I don’t like driving at night.”
Advantage #3 I have time.
What was once an excuse, suddenly is an advantage. Now I do have time—for hobbies, reading, fishing and hiking. Time to relax and listen to music without a conscience telling me to iron, mow or cook.
Advantage #4 I can ignore prohibitions that ruled my previous life (unless my children or eagle-eyed grandchildren are present).
I can put my elbows on the table, not eat spinach or have a second helping of dessert. And there are others.
Advantage #5 With the children out of my wallet, I have more discretionary spending power.
I can afford small luxuries that I’d denied myself because Raymond needed new football boots and more substantial luxuries when Sally Ann’s teeth needed straightening.
But now that I’ve reached the “wrinklies” stage, I’ve lost the urge to splurge. My five-year-old car will do me fine. After all, where am I going to drive it? I don’t make long trips these days.
Advantage #6 I can take liberties with people and not cause an upset.
A hoary head affords you a certain amount of liberty to say and do as you please. I can attend a family gathering and while daughters and daughters-in-law scamper about serving food and tending small children, I relax in an armchair, with a permanent dispensation for my indolence, enjoying, on the contrary, being the centre of awed attention and indulged as I regale the gathering with reminiscences of Model-Ts and steel-boned corsets. Conversely, I can doze at an engagement party and not even have to pretend to be having a fun time.
No doubt there are more fine advantages, but that’s enough for me. After all, there’s no way of turning the clock back 40 or 50 years, so I’m making the most of what I have—and loving it.
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