Splitting Gray Hairs

I am doing fine with the occasional wild, gray hair (just two short hours at my hairdresser takes care of that problem); an ache here and a pain there is almost tolerable; the beginning of an all out gravity pull southward is testing my limits, but when I realized that my son’s doctor and orthodontist, and the actors playing physicians on TV not only looked young, they were young and that I am old enough to be their mother, I must admit, I freaked (and not very gracefully at that).

What I would like to know is when did this all happen.  I thought I was present and accounted for at most of the activities that have been occurring in my life.  But, somehow, these youngun’s have snuck up on me and have begun to take over.  Gone are the kindly white hairs that nurtured and soothed the soul.  Their knowing, creased faces held years of laughter and familiarity with the trials and tribulations of life.  A slower pace and the time they took to listen to you and your problems felt like a well-worn, comfortable pair of shoes.  A bowtie was icing on the cake and a proven confidence booster for age and wisdom.

I appreciate that the whippersnappers have the education and technological know- how to analyze, investigate and scrutinize my insides without even saying hello.  I like the fancy smancy machines that can diagnose even the most miniscule of ailments, but somehow I feel that there might be something missing in the translation.  Bedside manner goes a long way, and this doesn’t necessarily pertain to just the medical profession.

Without being too presumptuous, and heralded in headlines of major newspapers and websites this past week, that by the year 2050, the number of seniors (that would be folks over the age of 65) will more than double and make up roughly 21% of the general population of the U.S., I am comforted that I will be with kindred spirits in my golden years.  But what about the other 69%, are they ready for us?  Will they know we have arrived and have needs?  Will they be kind to us as we gracefully set sail?

Will they call upon our well-earned knowledge and skills or try to confine us to a “special” place?  Will the expertise of generations past be put to good use?  Will they have the time to just sit and talk?  Will they respect us in the morning?

I don’t mind (too much) that I will be pushed aside for the new regime, but I am not taking it lying down.  I am going to put on my dancing shoes and kick up my heels.  I plan on reveling on my accomplishments and mentioning to my son, at every chance, tidbits and trivia on anything and everything I have stored in my vast reservoir of useless facts and data, for his future reference and ability to annoy his own children accordingly (it is the least I can pass on).  I think we can all peacefully co-exist, until the first youngster calls me “Mam”, then, I fear, all hell may break loose.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life. Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-