Last year melted into a blurry image of hot, humid summer days and was quickly followed by an explosion of orange, auburn, and bright yellow that eventually turned a muted and dry crinkly brown. In November, this series of rapidly projected seasonal vignettes slowed and stopped in full view of my bay window which just happened to coincide with my (shudder) 70th birthday. My beloved grandmother, Becky (as she was called, by all except me) told me I was born in the season of summer ashes-beige, ox blood and dark walnut-colored leaves. Desiccated reminders of the once lush, green hues that provided the backdrop to spring's translucent watercolors and summer's celebration of watermelon and fireworks.
A November birthdate imbues a slight proclivity for depression. October prances around in her autumnal splendor to lavish applause and praise, while December appears spiritual and virginal dressed in white and smelling of fir and peppermint. November slogs about in sack cloth and ashes. If you are not slightly depressed by now, then you may have missed the whole point of SAD-Seventy and Depressed.
I believe everyone entertains a depressing thought on occasion, but for the majority of the time we humans are optimistic and productive owing to our ability to control many of the factors in our environs.
Although, outside of an early and unforeseen demise, we will attain our promised 70 or 80 year lifespan with tempered surprise and even less fanfare. And we will feel a tad depressed knowing we are but a temporary fixture here( a dubious gift left un-bestowed upon the rest of the animal kingdom), and will sometime in the next 20 or 30 years depart for our next mysterious journey. As you may deduce, 70 makes one introspective, i.e., depressed.
I have mentally listed all the harrowing aspects of turning 70, which by the way is the age I recall most vividly when thinking about my mother and grandmothers. Seventy was an age they graced well, not at all like me, I shag and twist to beach music in the living room while rubbing Aspercreme on my shoulders and hips. At seventy my whole generation is a paradox. We are 18 and eerily wise. Agile and stiff, free spirits and old farts, jaded and awed by life, bitter and sweet, inspirational and oppressive.
We can talk about the past and evoke yawns and eye rolls from grandchildren. When we talk about sex we suddenly become perverse and unstable. (We, like our parents, are to know nothing of sex). We are all candidates for the nursing home in the minds of the younger generation,(who will never succumb to the mental and physical decrepitude we fell victim to).
All this may be true, but this old gal of 70/18 ain't going down without a fight! Yes, I get my hair colored, and sport a youthful cut. I wear knee-high boots, and turtleneck sweaters(concession to the turkey neck), I work out and ache like the devil the next day. I'm engaged in the battle of the bulge, and know I won't succeed, but will die trying. As for romance, it's out there; however, it's usually dependent upon a little blue pill. Instead of birth-control pills on the nightstand, there is a collection of death-control pills: anti-hypertensives, statins, antacids, pain pills, fiber (lots of fiber). Between big pharma and my hairdresser I can pass for 65 or 69 depending on the time of day, the lighting and if the fiber did it's job.
We gals over 65 still like to think of ourselves as hot. We are a challenge for clothing designers who want to adorn these aged frames in polyester and double knits. We don't want to look like puckered up Kewpie dolls from a carnival sideshow, or wrinkled sluts, but graceful and stylish women to can be comfortable and attractive--youthful, has a nice ring to it. We do like the new stealthy stretch fabrics that look slenderizing and contemporary, but allow for double helpings of cellulite.
I'm still pretty strong. I shoveled 8"deep snow off my driveway by myself last year, and hefted my 45lb kayak on top of my car. I try to remain strong in the event that my dating life may hinge upon my ability to lift a date on or off something-I'm hoping it's not a potty.
We are still very susceptible to the attention of the opposite sex, i.e., geezers: the retired football players, the bald captains of industry with beer guts and the shriveled academics who once turned many heads, but now can only attract insurance companies hawking Medicare Supplements and nursing homes. Yes, these are still the guys that make our hearts beat a little faster(pace makers not withstanding). We want to think we're still attractive and even "doable" assuming the new hip can withstand the activity. You have to get use to the smell, not of pheromones, but of Bengay in the bedroom. Hint: it's not the bed that's creaking.
Well, that's all for now, it's nap time and the fiber is kicking in. I'll be back with more pearls, and sand.
