72
And learning to give a fuck about the things worth giving a fuck about
I’m puzzled at the doctor’s office. So many bizarre questions from the new PA… why is she asking me to draw 3:00 on a clock — am I in kindergarten? And repeating 3 simple words (apple, clock, chair). Her balance questions were not about what I owed them but about my ability to stay upright.
Then. I realized. She sees my number on the chart. She’s checking me for early signs of dementia. And — damn — I showed up looking so fine in my newest hot mama getup — and Balenciagas. There’s some balance for you…
Then it happened.
Two days later — I lost my balance in the middle of my “power walk” — on the 9,237th step to be exact — and ended up in the emergency room — with a couple of broken bones.
Was I hexxed? Or is this balance thing … umm…. a fact.
Vulnerability set in… am I really, truly and officially….a tottering ole broad? Or Is this simply … an awakening? My ageism rageism really kicked in when my (mostly very sedentary) pals started telling (active AF) me to “watch my step” once spotting the cast. No. I’m not tottering — but the vulnerability helped me realize — yep, time’s creeping up on me. It’s just a fact.
The evidence mounts:
My very first design assistant just invited me to her 50th birthday bash. Whaaa?
The group texts with my buds sounds like the recovery ward — “How’s your shoulder” “Is your ankle any better” “How’s that back”…. Oh, there’s plenty about vibrators, lovers, ageism, movies, food — and fuckin Covid and fuckin double fuck Putin … but lots and lots about arthritis….
And then there are the photos. They contain so many facts. Sometimes too many. I splurged on a photo sesh gift for a BFF — she lost 45 pounds during the plague — walked it off — and we wanted to mark this metamorphosis. I thought the shots were FAB and sent them over. Radio silence. For days. Huh? The confession: She was, in fact, shocked to see that her neck is no longer 30, and she has some bags under those huge almond eyes. She loves them now. It was simply — a fact.
Even the almighty R&B singer, Bettye LaVette is not immune. When Covid was FULL TILT, she heard — as we all did — that the “elderly” were more prone to getting IT — and dying. The elderly — not 76-year-old Bettye. So there she was, sporting a mask and speeding around town doin’ her thing. It was her young grandson who tapped her on the shoulder and said: “Ummm, you are an elder. Please don’t go out.” Shock. Facts.
I took this selfie of myself for my 72nd birthday WEEK. Oh yeah, It’s a week! Would I ever have stood in front of the camera minus a dash of makeup in the ole days? Hell no! And it’s damn freeing! And yeah, the face has changed. Shock. Facts.
Or could it be shock and awe? Once you get it. That change is the only constant — and these changes are punctuated by some cold hard facts. That are hard to swallow. But we do (I’ve never been a spitter).
This is not advice. It is an observation. Observing the way time takes you.
With the years, you get realer about aging, unrealistic beauty standards, love, and not giving a fuck about the stupid things.
I used to go out at midnight.
Now I hit the bed at midnight, purring over a good book, with my turmeric pill, ready to kick ass in the (very early) morning.
My lover is designated every other night. No more full time - — sorry not sorry.
Aging is an eye opening. And it is liberating.
You learn to give a fuck about the things worth giving a fuck about.
And that edits out a LOT.
Ok. It’s midnight. Tumeric, check, good book, check.
And grateful — no longer vulnerable — that I am still aging. And still got my balance bitches!!!
