Becoming a Senior

Thoughts on Becoming a Senior

A senior…I was still working in trauma counseling, mind fully occupied with administrative matters and others’ pain, thinking about what to do for lunch, when to have my hair done, keeping files in order, how my relationship was doing, when it appeared: A brown envelope containing the following message:”You qualify for Old Age Pension, beginning the month after your 65 birthday, on September 7, 2012.”

Hey. That’s means me! Wait a minute, there must be some mistake. I’m not one of THEM! Stereotypes flash into my mind:

Gray haired, slow moving, with dulled senses, decrepit, pill taking

Invisible, traffic slowing, bent over a walker,

Frugal, disapproving, fussy

Sweet old ladies; “She’s a dear.” “What an old bat!” “He’s so whiny…he’s like an old woman.”

We elderly are the cause of news hysteria:

Baby boomers are a strain on the pension and medical systems! Half will have Alzheimers in the next 25 years! There will be no resources left for those who are still in the work force when they are ready to retire!

Jokes abound. Baby boomers refuse to age gracefully. Keith Richards keeps on rocking like some animated zombie. Cher is no longer able to changer her expression, due to repeated plastic surgery. Betty White’s amazing! She’s in her 80s, but convinces young people of her coolness in a sitcom that appears to be strong on innuendo and devoid of meaningful content. Those are their choices. Good for them, if it brings them joy, and inner peace.

Fear strikes, and renders me sleepless. I wonder, who will I be if I’m not a counselor?

I resort to self-deprecation to prepare myself, and others for my dotage: “I bought some gingko for my memory, but I can’t remember to take it!” Drum roll. “I knew I was slowing down when I realized I didn’t need to add ‘1000’ to each number when counting seconds. One…two…three…where was I?”

I make sure my professional membership and insurance are up to date, so I can segue into private practice.

I don’t want to become demanding, ridiculous, needy. I imagine my children saying

“What will we do with Mom? She’s definitely losing it”; “You take her, you have an in-law suite!” Never mind that I’ve been ‘losing it’ for their entire lives, being a right brain person who notices atmosphere, beauty, colours, moods, but can’t keep track of keys.

Some of the clerks at the grocery store shout at me when I hesitate for a moment, “Do you want a BAG? The chip goes in the BOTTOM.” Hey, I know, I’m getting there. And by the way, Sweetie, gray hair doesn’t make you deaf!

But...does any of this really matter? Not really, as long as that pension keeps on coming. And even if it stops—those of us of a certain age have practical skills, and a work ethic passed on by parents who grew up during the Great Depression. They survived, and we will too!

There’s time to write and learn and enjoy the great pleasures of ‘puttering’…doing things that used to be hated chores, and taking time to do them properly and creatively. And as for beauty…it is subjective. I’m learning to appreciate the attractiveness of laugh lines, and a genuine smile.

Frankly, I am amazed how good it is to be a senior. I am so blessed to be relatively healthy and fit—tricky back aside. I don’t WANT to do therapy any more. I know who I am. It’s time for reflection, appreciation, and focusing on non-client relationships. There are some very good, younger people waiting to show what they can do. They are full of enthusiasm and dedication, and energy! They have families to support and student loans to pay off.

Speaking of blessings, I married the love of my life at 64. Marriage at this stage is not like marrying at 21. This time, we didn’t get married to complete ourselves, or in the foolish hope that we would make each other happy, meet each others’ every need, or be there—present—all the time. Heaven forbid! We know how to be comfortable in solitude and are willing to grant each other the favor of space as needed. We are able to let go of minor hurts, overlook quirks, and practice courtesy. 

I get to paint every day if I want to! Again, not with the goal of selling paintings or to gain others’ approval, but for the sensual enjoyment of spreading paint on canvas, and watching the beginnings of a style emerge—my own visual language.  Companionship is sweet; family is all the more precious because of the infrequency of our visits.

With age, often, comes an attitude shift toward gratitude. It’s not important how the rest of the world assesses me; I am responsible to my faith and my own principles.

May all the days that still are left to me

Be spent in love and creativity.