I woke up old a few weeks ago. I got up, looked in the mirror and saw a timeworn woman. Overnight, I developed a big brown age spot on my forehead, crepe-papery eyelids and a long, silky blonde moustache.
Prior to waking up old, I liked to imagine how life would be as an old lady. I would say exactly what I wanted, put people straight, not give two bits about what they thought. I would be regarded as wise and worldly. I’d play with the big boys and girls and be taken seriously. Sometimes I might use my age as an excuse to get out of something like, “I’d love to be able to help plan that baby shower but I’m old. You understand, dear,” and I’d shrug my hunched shoulders.
But turning old is hard. Prior to it happening, I never gave a second thought to things like special eyelid creams or facial hair removers. I dyed my hair only to change the colour, not to cover the grey. The skin on my hands was soft and smooth and I never worried about this neck waggle that’s developing.
The world seems to be changing fast too. It’s not like it was when I was a youngster. Since waking up old, a lot of bass-thumping hooligans drive super-close behind me. They always have those stupid sunglasses on, the windows rolled down with that obnoxious rap music they all listen to filling the street. They honk their insufferable horns at me, as if they have somewhere important they need to be right now. Then I glance down at my speedometer and holy moly, I’m going 10 under the limit. Ten under. But this is just how us old people roll.
I’ve begun filling crystal bowls around my house with hard candy. I keep it in my purse too, where it gets covered in a light coating of lint and purse-dust. I enjoy offering it to my friends’ kids. And I’ve switched out my pink and bling purse of awesomeness for a stiff, beige naugahyde one, which is more suitable for people my age.
My language has changed. These days I use words and phrases like, sonny, fiddlesticks, darn tootin’ and yella-bellied. I never even knew what these meant until two weeks ago when I woke up old. Now, it’s just the way I talk.
Okay, okay, this is all bunk. Except for my age spot, crepe-paper eyelids, blonde moustache, grey hair and waggle neck. The truth is that it’s about danged time I grew up. I’ve been looking forward to this feeling of being old enough to be taken seriously. Age has given me confidence.
I so respect the oldies like my aunties who are generous with their stories and time. I feel like I have so much to learn from them, so I can pass down the family history, recipes and stories to my children and grandchildren. Yes, I may be starting to look older, but boy is it better than feeling young. I don’t care what anyone says, being old is the new young.
