Open Writing

It’s one thing to grow old – as if we had a choice, but it’s an act of capitulation to display, either knowingly or otherwise, evidence that supports the fact that you have arrived there. You know what I mean – all those subtle, and not so subtle, telling signs that you’re in the exit lane. I long ago passed the marker post; in fact I didn’t even notice it, but I have become acutely aware of mannerisms that seemingly come at no extra cost with advanced years.

I guess the first one to appear is the gasp as one sits down or bends over. What’s that all about? It’s not as if I’m in pain, or that my pants are too tight, but unless I’m guarded, out it comes, and I hurriedly look around, hoping that no one noticed. When I’m in the company of younger people I try to suppress the “gasp” at all costs. Then, when exiting a chair, there is the “groan.” Again, I can see no rational reason for doing that.

Even so, chairs can be a challenge when you’re old. It’s important, if you’re a guest for the first time, to assess the available chairs carefully before accepting the one offered by your host or hostess. Try to avoid soft, clingy upholstery, particularly velvet, and stay away from deep seated, “comfortable” chairs. If alternatives are not available, claim restlessness, and refuse to sit down. Failure to pick the right chair will result in great embarrassment when you attempt to stand up, because you’ll find yourself rocking back and forth, trying to escape, and finally have to succumb to the helping hand of your host. Oh, the shame of it!

Then there are, what I call, the “oversights.” These are many and varied – the missed belt loop; failing to completely tuck your shirt tail into the back of your pants; putting on your tie over your shirt collar at the back; not zipping your fly. And the worst one of all, somehow tucking the end of the toilet roll into your clothing when in a public toilet. The tug of the paper as you leave the stall is indiscernible, and, without realizing it, you leave a train of tissue between the stall and the sink. Of course that’s never happened to me, or to you – yet.

Memory, or the ability to recall, has become almost an obsessive topic of our generation. I think my synapses and neurons are in pretty good shape, and the dreaded plaque is being held at bay for now, but one worries never the less. I relish the new clarity of my long-term memory, and can deal with occasionally not remembering what I had for dinner last evening, but I’m intrigued with a, for me, new phenomenon I call the “other door syndrome.”

The “other door syndrome” works like this. In the middle of preparing a meal I walk over to the refrigerator, a matter of three steps, to get something I need. At the left hand side of the fridge is a cupboard containing mugs, cups and saucers. For reasons I’m unable to explain, I open the cupboard door instead of the fridge door, and stand transfixed, wondering why I can’t see what I need. This experience is not confined to the fridge either – it works just as well with the pantry. It doesn’t help of course that almost every store or office door you approach has a sign on it “Please use other door.”

A couple of mannerisms that I wish I didn’t have are the “stagger” and the “scowl.” My legs have received a lot of attention these past four years, and not the admiring kind. Two knee replacements and lots of physical therapy have left them functionally in better shape than they’ve been in years. I work out every other day and do some walking, but the “stagger” persists. It occurs when I stand up, whether from a chair or my bed. The first few steps I take give a pretty good impression of inebriation.

I think I inherited the “scowl” from my mother. She had two pairs of glasses, one for reading, and the other for distance. No matter where she was, she never had the correct pair with her. In trying to discern words on a page or to identify a bird at the far end of our garden, the effort to focus would produce the open-mouthed “scowl,” a very unattractive grimace.

I wear graduated, tri-focal glasses, so I don’t have the excuse of wearing the wrong pair, but have never the less become aware that I scowl when I try to focus on something at a distance that falls between two of the lens gradations. I console myself with the knowledge that I’m carrying on a fine tradition. On rare occasions, people mistake the scowl for a smile, which almost always elicits a smile in return, and that makes my day.

Of all the clues that you’ve entered the “golden years” (I love that expression), speech mannerisms are the most damning. Top of the list is “Boy, oh boy, I’ll tell you…” This may be just an American expression, but I’ll bet other countries have their version. The phrase prefaces any of several statements, as in: “Boy oh, boy, I’ll tell you, old age ain’t for the faint hearted,” or, …things aren’t the way they were when I was a kid,” etc., etc.

I don’t harp on the “good old days,” even though they were; if, for no other reason than that I didn’t have to be constantly on my guard against giving away clues about my advancing years. Because I have always looked younger than my age, I spent a lot of my life trying to appear older for various reasons. Now, I can accept the age I am, but thank heaven I haven’t yet reached the age where I brag about it.

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