I woke up again today, with my back hurting, and stiff from a sleepless night. I've grown hateful of the fact that a mirror directly faces the toilet where I begin each morning's routine. I hate the old fool that faces me each day before I stumble off to the kitchen and my solitary cup of earl grey. Her face reminds me of cracked, parched Nevada hardpan that covers most of that state. At that early hour, I see nothing of the once young and resilient woman I was forty years ago. I see nothing in her faded patina worthy of the effort to shine and make good as new again.
I have long held contempt for my body, for my looks and general lack of sex appeal. But the longer I walk this planet, the more my contempt withers under the weight of age. Nearing seventy, I am simply too old and tired to care about my looks, my body, or my appearance.
From living around other seniors these last few years, I think I am in alignment with most of my aging neighbors. Too many sunrises, too many aches and pains, too many doctor's appointments, and far too little joy derived from the act of living to give a damn about the reported benefits of longevity.
When did this happen? I can't say exactly, maybe a year or two ago. Maybe when I woke up one day with more pains from sleep than what I went to bed with. Rising with the sun now takes a Herculean amount of effort, and by mid mourning I have no reserves. Nothing is left inside of me to take into the afternoon and toward the setting sun. I often struggle to find, let alone catch my second breath for the day, and when I an not able, I sit slumped over unable to rest, or move forward with my day's planned escapades.
Yet, like most other seniors, I joke and make light of my aged condition with others. Trying to laugh off my anxiety over lack of money, or lack of bowel movements. I tell silly stories to anyone within ear shot of frantic doctor's visits for heart palpitations, and am in heaven when a friend will actually sit through my recital of my dental maladies.
Perhaps the hardest part of being old is the unvarnished fact that none of our elders in our families prepared us for the folly and fears of living a long life. While every human generation who has had the luxury of living past the age of breeding has experienced it to one degree or another, there is not a oral or written chronicle dating back to pre-history that preps the youth for the challenges and condition that is old age.
Knowing my family's genealogy quite well, I know at least six generations of my ancestors lived well into their eighties and nineties. Yet, here I sit without one written word from them as to how best to navigate and deal with being old.
Could it be they all went to their grave without every having figured this all out?
If I back off my disappointment over my absent youth and once average looks, I suspect that my ancestors, each in their own way learned that old age, in and of itself, was the gift. That living through the folly's and fevers of growing older, meant we are rewarded with the sight of another sunrise and another chance to hear a bird, to taste our tea, or smell a rain soaked grass. The aches and pains of old age, the regrets and sorrows of a life lived, must be balanced by most precious gift in the universe.
The gift of being alive for one, more, day.
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