Senior moments are not all bad
The Seekers were 26 when they recorded their song Turn, Turn, Turn. I was 13. I sang along with them about there being ‘‘a time for every purpose under heaven . . . a time to be born, a time to die . . . a time to build up, a time to break down’’.
I didn’t think for a minute that this breaking down business had anything to do with me personally.
The Seekers are old-age pensioners now. I’m heading in that direction and it’s only now that I really get what the song was about. I’ve finally realised that I am part of the being born, the breaking down and the dying which we chorused about so blithely when we were young and ignorant.
It’s ridiculous, of course, that it’s taken so long for the realisation to dawn. The world’s full of old people. The grey-haired, the wrinkled, the infirm, the wearers of hearing aids and glasses, the wielders of walking sticks and Zimmer frames have been there in full view all along. But somehow I’ve managed to keep myself and old people in two mutually exclusive categories.
Denial of ageing might simply be a correlative of youth. Or it might be a peculiarity of the baby-boomer generation; we are such a large cohort and our mutual denial has been aided and abetted by extraordinary advancements in medical science.
If our vital organs fail we get spare parts installed. Pepped up by pacemakers and Viagra, we can nip around on plastic hips and titanium kneecaps, and we can stay bright-eyed thanks to laser surgery.
Whatever the reason, it’s been easy to believe myself immune to the passage of time. There have, of course, been hints and portends but somehow they haven’t sunk in.
I know for example that I am nearly the same age as my mother was when she died. I’ve heard myself make preposterous statements like ‘‘When I was in London 40 years ago’’.
I’ve begun taking lists with me when I visit the doctor. The nana nap has edged out the beauty sleep, and the term ‘‘senior moment’’ has infiltrated my vocabulary.
Losing my car keys and cell phone has become routine. And of course policemen have begun to look awfully young.
Nonetheless, it was still a shock when Time’s wing’d chariot, carrying its usual load of arthritic pets, burned-out rock stars and ancient aunties stopped to pick me up. It was only than that I knew, really knew in these quite possibly osteoporotic bones of mine, that I too was getting old.
This epiphany occurred one morning as I was sitting in a patch of sun on the front veranda watching steam rise off the frosty lawn. The dog sat beside me, nose twitching, sipping the frigid air.
I had nothing to do but devote myself to the task at hand: putting on my boots. I crossed my right leg over my left knee, cocked my socked foot into the air, and reached forward to pull on the first boot. My foot resisted the boot. Or the boot resisted the foot.
I wrestled with both, believing the problem must lie with one of these two variables. It took several long moments before I realised that I was trying to force my right foot into the left boot.
It had only taken the crossing of my legs to bamboozle my brain into believing that my right foot was actually my left foot and that the left boot should therefore be fitted onto it.
Once this piece of intelligence flooded my brain I had no further difficulty with getting myself shod. Only the dog witnessed this idiocy, otherwise I would have had to make some joke about having two left feet or putting my best foot forward.
After the initial dismay at this very obvious interruption to full brain functioning, I’ve actually found that there’s some consolation in joining the ravaged ranks of what commentators like to call ‘‘the ageing population’’.
I’m kinder to myself when words fail to answer my summons as obediently as they once did. It used to madden me when a word hovered just out of reach – on the tip of my tongue or in some dark recess of my brain – before suddenly lurching into consciousness hours later, long after the need for them had vanished.
Rather like embarking on a joke and not remembering the punch line until your listener has left the room.
I notice, but don’t rail against the fact, that sometimes I have to stand perfectly still before a word will come to me – as if my brain hasn’t got the wherewithal to handle walking and word production at the same time.
It’s become amusing to observe what happens when a word – like ‘‘Eustachian’’ for example – declines to materialise and sends ‘‘Etruscan’’ as a completely useless substitute.
One rainy morning, planning a trip to town, I mentally reminded myself to take my umbrella, picturing as I did so its folding struts and taut waterproof nylon. When I opened my mouth however I said ‘‘I must take my fan into town with me’’.
In a social setting this kind of thing can make you seem like a batty old lady. But it’s one of the consolations of life aboard the Wing’d Chariot that you can give up trying to appear dignified and grown-up if you’re going to end up seeming batty anyway.
There are other consolations too. You’re probably as neurotic as you’re ever going to be. It’s too late to be an astronaut or a golf pro (if you ever had those ambitions) so you can kick back a bit. And eventually you get a Gold Card which gives you free bus rides, half-price seats at the movies and the perfect excuse to go to bed early with a book.