Do We Ever Really Grow Old?

I ask this question to myself often. To you, it may seemingly be an easy answer, one that glares at you in the mirror every morning shortly after you arise. To me the question of age seems never-ending. Let me tell you why:

Thinking about my grandmother, now more often than ever, I wonder if she understands that the time to depart the earth is rapidly nearing. Will death be a gentle sail out to sea for her, or will it end with a tsunami wave and be a fight to the very bitter end? The strength and wildness of the sea slamming into her frail bones, crushing her to an instantaneous poof of dust? Or will it be that she miraculously survives the proverbial wave, but realizes she’s hundreds of miles out to shore, condemned to say a slow miserable ‘hello’ to Davy Jones?

Why I chose sea analogies today I’m uncertain: but one thing I am sure of is that time is a matter of perception. All of its faults are a matter not of the passing or expenditure of time, but rather the perception of if our lives were made worth living. Measured in the rawest parameters, I’m not certain we ever truly grow old.

Let me ask you this: do you feel your age right this very moment? Because I surely don’t. Sometimes my body aches and I recognize that the older I get the more and more limited I become in my physicality, even though it’s little by little. When someone refers to me as in my mid-to-late thirties, my heart skips a beat and my stomach tightens. I’m sorry, are you referring to me? Yesterday I was but a child!

When I shaved my head this summer, I felt liberated. So liberated, until I discovered that a much larger majority of my hair was white than I ever realized. So silly to be initially concerned with such matters, but society forces women to notice the physical attributes of aging, and never in a positive manner. After calming my inner teenager who was less-than-appalled at the striking white strands, I recognized that this, too, is just another perception of time. Aging neither adds to our wholeness, nor subtracts, but continues to keep us in balance.

Upon the arrival of my first child I remember thinking: am I this tiny, living, breathing human’s mother? I can’t possibly be. Surely these people, these professionals, will see the look of horror on my face at being left in charge of nurturing life?! Shouldn’t they have some kind of test for this? Surely they aren’t going to leave me, a child within her own right, in charge! Please tell me they aren’t leaving me to mind the task of raising this human to be good, and just, and whole. Oh NO…

Many days I feel all of sixteen. Waiting to chomp at the bit of adventure, to seize the moment - to take the plunge! To fulfill every platitude of every teacher I’ve ever known! Until I realize that I am the one in charge. The one burdened with waking early with little sleep, sending email after email, packing bag after bag, driving here and there and everywhere. Dr. Seuss could have made a fortune if he’d just chronicled the life of every mother in one of his books. The one who maintains order, corrals chaos, and is condemned to a life brimming with monotony.

Other days, I feel forty, fifty, beaten down by the branches of capitalism, misogyny, and hatred. Knees, hips, and feet all ache with a yearning for a nice, soft surface in which to rest upon my weary head. Again, it is my perception. For people are troublesome at times, sometimes even for most of our day and it becomes dreadfully exhausting to function. Sucked away are the hopes of adventure and dreams of pursing the unknown, and now I also have to deal with this fucking guy…

The next question usually becomes, will I ever feel my age? Will I ever feel as though I have gleefully, joyfully, restfully had enough of this life and be ready to mosey on? As I look into Nana’s eyes when we speak I am certain she feels unready. For fear as the reason or just not feeling old enough to let go, I am uncertain. Maybe it is a little bit of both.

That question then always leads me to this one which is, do we ever really grow old? If our age is naught but a number and only a figment of our imaginations, or even just a mathematical constant, do we ever truly get old?

Will I ever stop feeling sixteen, ready to sneak away at a moments notice at the mere thought of excitement? Shall I ever finally grow unconcerned with the injustices of the world? Will my aches and pains be something I accept instead of combat with Tylenol, CBD, or physical therapy? It seems to me that it is all a matter of perception.