Happy Birthday to Me. I'm 53. I Feel Old.
This past year, the year of the pandemic, is the year I grew old.
People used to comment I looked young for my age. They would assume I was younger than I actually was, demand to see my ID to verify what I was telling them.
I used to get carded. Now, unless the app requires it, the folks delivering my booze don’t bother.
I knew my apparent youth would eventually end. I would eventually start to look old, like a grandmother.
And why should I care anyway? There’s nothing wrong with getting older, with looking older.
Hell, if getting old and being mostly alone are my only problems, I’m doing swell and should thank my lucky stars. I know people have endured devastating losses, previously unimaginable changes in circumstances, due to the pandemic. People lost loved ones and jobs. I know people who are COVID-19 long-haulers, still dealing with the aftereffects of having the virus. Friends have been laid off from jobs they held for many years. I’ve mostly stayed home because I thought that was the right thing to do, given my personal circumstances and at-risk status, and I’m lucky, privileged, to have that option.
And yet, during this year of mostly staying home alone in my apartment, I have watched the visible signs of growing older with horror:
Are those lines on my forehead? Is my skin getting crepey? Is my hair thinning? My back hurts. My eyes hurt. I’m tired.
I haven’t had a haircut in over a year. My grey hair is getting long. It looks witchy.
I recently went to the eye doctor, because my eyes had been hurting for months and I worried something might be wrong and there is, so I have more prescriptions to take: pills, drops, ointments. I don’t want to be bothered with any of it. I long for the nights when I would fall asleep without taking off my glitter eye makeup.
I went to get my teeth cleaned. It had been a year and I couldn’t put it off any longer.
I was way overdue for a mammogram, which I was dreading, but I read I should get it before getting the vaccine. So, on a wintry Monday, after walking against the wind while trying not to slip on the ice, I made it to my appointment at the hospital. It wasn’t that bad.
Reading poetry at a bar. Photo credit: Joseph Stevens
I think going out to bars, talking to people, reading poetry at open mics, was keeping me young. Or maybe I was already growing too old for that before the pandemic and hadn’t admitted it to myself yet.
Going out was a way to experience a change of scenery and perspective, which I thought was useful for my getting on with and getting over things, but maybe it was also distraction and avoidance.
Truth is I’ve enjoyed my lightened workload and having more time to read and fewer hassles and people to deal with. I’ve made some progress on some long-term projects, but not as much as I think I should have. And then there are the errands, appointments, etc. I’ve put off that I can’t put off anymore.
I feel like an old lady, fearful, cloistered, looking out the window and getting notifications about news and crimes from various apps, thinking to myself:
Is the whole world going to shit? Or is it just my perception because I’m sitting here by myself taking in this information instead of going out to places and interacting with actual people, which would make the world seem less scary and awful? Or would it?
There are good things about being old. I’ve grown into myself. I know enough now to know what I don’t like, don’t want to bother with, so that leaves me free to focus on what I do like and am interested in. I think I’ve gotten better at housework, which isn’t saying much, since it will always be hard for me, as well as all the other mundane, tedious hassles and details of life. At least I know enough not to strive for circumstances I wouldn’t be able to handle anyway. Ambition, goals, productivity, success, relationships, adventures, etc. are not for me.
I don’t care about being famous. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. I’m not interested in romance. I have my own work to do, projects to finish, hobbies I enjoy, family, friends, a home. And if I feel more and more out of sync, like I don’t belong in the world, maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be, an indication that I should bow out gracefully, make room for the younger folks, let them carry on with the work I admire but don’t have the energy for.
But this is not just about me and my vanity. I have a feeling I’m not the only one who is feeling their age after a year of being inundated with news of death while in relative isolation, calculating risks and rewards and doing cost-benefit analyses for formerly routine outings, and overall experiencing a dramatic change from what life was before.
Happy birthday to me. May the world grow more free, with or without old folks like me.