For old eyes only:

May 27, 2010 | 5 comments

Sydney – 2009

     I learned not long ago that I am officially ‘elderly.’  Who knew?  Apparently, one becomes elderly at 65.  So I’ve been in that state for more than nine years.  And to think I was just getting used to being a ‘senior.’
     Not that there haven’t been signs – for instance the pill collection.  I remember that years ago, when my aging relatives visited, one of the first things they did was put their compartmentalized pill containers in front of their places at the table.  Morning and evening they would dutifully take their pills.  I had not yet graduated to the pill stage of life and I can remember thinking “How awful!”  Now, however, the shelves in our medicine cabinet are lined with little prescription bottles – a shelf for Nyel and a shelf for me.  So far, though, we have resisted those plastic containers divided according to days of the week.    
       And then there’s the matter of getting in and out of the car.  It used to irritate me when waiting for a parking space that it took so long for older people to get in, get situated and, finally, move on out.  Sometimes, I thought I was waiting for a car to leave when actually it had arrived and its driver was still in the ‘organizing-to-disembark’ mode.  “What are they doing?” I wondered.  Now that I am officially elderly I can answer that question with some authority:  “Nothing special.”  It all just takes longer.
     The dribble syndrome is another sure sign that I have become a woman of a certain age.  When eating is involved, especially eating out, I often find that I decorate the front of my clothing with tell-tale spots – just about at bib level.  It occurs to me that I should look into designer bibs for the elderly.  Surely someone has found that niche and is anticipating a fortune from all of us dribblers. 
     There is one more sign, though, that comes along with aging – something not as readily apparent to the outside observer.  For the most part, we elderly folks just don’t care very much.  A few spots?  A pill collection?  An impatient driver or two?  What does it really matter in the great scheme of things?  Like my dimming vision that doesn’t allow me to see the dust and my selective memory that helps me forget unpleasantness, there are always compensations as we age.  I can finally agree with “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” 

5 Comments

  1. Ruth Ann Hocking

    We are just more mature, not elderly! Not to crazy about that word! You would never know the age you are and all of the many things you do! Keeping your mind sharp is one of the secrets!

    Reply
  2. Rita

    As I quickly approach my 65th BD I couldn’t agree with you more! It’s actually a relief to “not sweat the small stuff” after all these years. Thanks for putting it so well:-)

    Reply
  3. Rita Nicely

    And you, Sydney certainly have a sharp mind not to mention that you wear your birthdays well!!! To me, “elderly” is a state of mind not years. You are anything but “elderly”:-)

    Reply
  4. Cindy Downer

    What does elderly mean????You certainly do not fit in that mold…..

    Reply

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