Anyone who knew me when I was much younger would have laughed at the idea of me writing a column called Senior Moments. For reasons it might have taken years of therapy for me to figure out, I wanted my age to remain a mystery. I once dated a man five years younger than me who never knew my age.
When I married my first husband, who also never knew my age, I actually asked him to drive to the next town to get our marriage license so our ages wouldn’t be listed in my hometown paper. In a scenario, he never let me forget I signed the license with my hand covering my age. It became a family joke. My mother, one of the few people who knew my age, discreetly avoided the subject in my presence.
I never knew the age of the person I admired most in my life, my Grandma Sarah. I just knew her look. White silky hair in a neat bun. Kindly worn face that spoke to surviving, and an ability to speak of love to her granddaughter, who spoke no Yiddish, while she spoke no English. Solid. Reliable. Wise.
“One mother can take care of eight children, but eight children can’t take care of one mother,” she said when she was being moved from one of her children’s homes to another after ill health left her unable to live on her own. It wasn’t a complaint, just an observation.
Long after Grandma was gone, I would see her face when someone asked my age. Clearly she would not have wanted me to lie about it. So I didn’t. I just avoided it. Maybe I just liked the idea of being young, until aging defined itself as a privilege.
“What’s my best-case scenario?” I asked the doctor, who confirmed that I had cancer.
“That you will die of old age, not cancer,” he responded. So far, it looks like that’s where I am headed. And I’m continuing to do what I love.
“Never retire. Do what you do and keep doing it…” Director Mel Brooks was quoted as advising in the book “Age doesn’t matter unless you’re a cheese,” by Kathryn and Ross Petras.
Thanks, Mel, I’m all in.
Email patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on Patriciabunin.com.