Open Writing

Recently, my back decided not to co-operate. I went to see a physiotherapist with the view of persuading it to return to its former state of being. Following the initial assessment—the bending and poking and probing and lifting—the energetic young practitioner proceeded to give me a diagnosis and a plan of action.

'You are in great shape for your age,' she reassured me. 'A few weeks of special exercises and therapy, and you will be fine.'

As I rested and followed her recommendations, I wondered what kind of shape I am supposed to be in 'for my age.' I get that observation quite often. It's supposed to be a compliment. Young people hasten to assure me that I am not old; middle-aged friends tell me that I am doing very well, and only little children seem to be observant enough to notice that I can't run as fast as they could.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the compliments. Who wants to be told that you are a doddering old so and so?

But apart from all of this, it is society's perception of what it means to age that intrigues me. I gather that an older person, usually referred to as a senior, and particularly a female, is expected to be frail and dependent; should have a range of chronic illnesses or at least one respectable disease; should have false teeth, and thick spectacles and hearing aids; should stay home a lot; and most of all should not have unorthodox ideas about religion and death. Getting this close to the pearly gates, you should be careful not to jeopardize your chances of getting in—just in case.

Many decades ago, once you hit sixty, you were considered old. Or starting to flirt with that condition of ineptitude. By sixty-five, you were given the golden handshake, and put out to pasture. That is, if you were not a judge in the Supreme Court, or a politician, or a priest. But of course, those positions were occupied by wise male elders, who, it seemed, got wiser as they got older, while it appeared that the rest of the populace had a tendency towards brain atrophy. Shades of this misconception still exist today, in spite of our increased longevity.

Last year, the province of Ontario removed the age limit of sixty-five as one of the grounds for discrimination in employment from the Human Rights Code. While some people feared that the workplace would be paralyzed by all those old geezers who would refuse to retire, many of us think that life after work is quite liberating. Because we have minds and interests and energy, and we do not fit the mould of decrepit old age.

Perhaps we need to remind our youth-oriented society that aging is a natural process. Cheese and wine do it beautifully.

Diamonds are the result of age and pressure. And we learn through our life experiences over the years. We can put the pieces of the puzzle together and see how they worked to land us in whatever pickle we find ourselves today. Or in whatever Shangri-la.

I am glad I have this time. Even though parts of my body are now advertising their existence by causing me pain and discomfort. But on the other hand, I have time to notice the full moon cruising for space in a crowded city skyline, to peek into my bedroom window on clear nights. I know a time when people walked a lot, lit their kerosene oil lamps with safety matches, and children played cricket in the roads. I remember the teacher who gave me a dressing down for daring to believe that human beings could reach out into deep space. I have watched my daughter grow up into an amazing young woman. I enjoy the frenzied growth of spring, the long summer days, (when the pollution count is not too high in the city), the golden autumn sunsets, and the crisp winter cold. They are also the seasons of my life. I wouldn't want to be stuck in one particular time or place.

There's a whole wide universe out there. I am part of it. I’ll go with the flow.

© Lytrice Adams