Slice of life
Even as a young man, he was never the sort of person who bounded out of bed in the morning, stretching the sleep from his muscles with ease, joyfully welcoming the morning sun, like an actor in an ad for insomnia relief.
As long as he could recall, waking was a process; a snort here, a groan there; eventually, reluctantly, heaving the warm blankets to the side and throwing his feet over the side of the bed, to stagger sleepdrunk to the bathroom. When he was a child, his mother said he “went to Jupiter” when he slept; a reference to the fact that his slumber was so deep, it was as if he had left the planet.
Grunting, more out of habit than discomfort, he lumbered to the kitchen, slightly oversized slippers flopping against the hardwood floor. As he ambled, he inspected his surroundings.
This had been their house for twenty years, the longest either of them had lived in one place. Since the kids had moved out a decade ago, this old place seemed cavernous; too outsized for only the two of them. Besides, they weren’t fans of DIY home repairs when they were in their prime. At his age, there was even less interest. The house was older — as were they — and needed more and more tweaking with each season (as did they). They were looking to downsize over the next couple of years.
A warm cup of joe between his hands, he headed toward the living room, preparing to catch up on what happened in the world overnight while he visited Jupiter. Catching his reflection in the hallway mirror — focusing on the sleep- designed rat’s nest of thinning gray hair on the top of his head and the creases highlighting his eyes — he thought, “How did his happen?”
Sure, logically, he knew that we all age. Yet, emotionally, he was irrationally in denial that it would happen to him. Old age had been theory; not reality. Yet, there it was, staring him back in the ever-more-wrinkled face.
He took stock of how his body felt as he stood in the chilly hallway, the hiss of the forced air heater serving as background to his thoughts. Admitting to a few aches and pains, the chilly morning amplified the discomfort, yet it wasn’t anything that really got in his way.
“It’s part of aging,” he was told by well-intentioned family and friends. “You get used to it.”
“No,” he replied forcefully, “I’m not allowing that affirmation into my thoughts.” It wasn’t that he was denying getting older or refusing to accept that it’s easier to pull — or sprain — or strain — or twist — something at “this age,” but he held firmly to the belief that there was a grace — even a beauty — in aging, and although he was powerless to stop the process, his plan was to enjoy what he could of it for as possible.
Being older did bring some blessings with it. There was a richness to the relationships he had, which didn’t exist in his thirties or even his forties — especially those people whom he known the longest. Almost as if on cue, he wife approached him from behind, putting her arms around his middle and her head on his shoulder, looking with him at their reflection.
“Look at us,” she said. “Did you ever think we’d be an old couple?”
“Speak for yourself,” he replied. “I prefer to think of myself as vintage.”
She shook her head playfully, as she so often did, in response to his humor. “Okay, did you ever think we’d be a ‘ vintage’ couple?”
“Sure, I mean, yeah, I guess I always knew it. It beats the alternative. But, it’s weird isn’t it? I’m closer to 90 than I am to 40. I remember when 40 seemed old, now it almost seems like a child.”
“Are you unhappy?” she asked.
He let the question breathe, mulling it over before replying. “No, not really. There are decisions I wish I had made differently. And I wish we could retire. It would be nice to have a home in Hawaii, travel more, and spend my days volunteering. But we made other choices.”
She smiled; hugged him tighter around his midsection, and leaned her head on his shoulder. Placing the mug on the table nearby, he hugged her arms as she surrounded his midsection and together, they inspected the couple reflected back at them in the mirror.
It certainly wasn’t the life he expected, but it was theirs. And he hoped it continued for a long time to come.
Scott “Q” Marcus is the CRP (Chief Recovering Perfectionist) of www. ThisTimeIMeanIt.com. He will be conducting a workshop on January 25 in Eureka called “Intentions • Affirmations • Motivations” that is open to anyone. Find out more at https:// thistimeimeanit.com/ lntentionsJan2020.