Old People Say the Darndest Things

That voice in my head says things I don’t always like to hear. But it’s better to deal with reality than deny it.

Standing over the toilet, I hold the grab bar as I pee. Sorry if that’s a little too graphic, but there’s a point here.

I’m high above the Atlantic in a cramped airplane bathroom. To the right of the john is a sleek, well-placed handle that doesn’t scream “hospital!” All loos should be this safe and respectful to their elders.

A voice in my head butts in: I wonder if — and when — I’ll no longer be able to pee standing up?”

A few nights later (after starting this piece) I have a disturbing dream that I am lost in some Spanish city, unable to speak the language, and have forgotten the name of my hotel. I was relieved to be in my own bed when I woke up, but the feelings lingered. Is this my unconscious warning me about my memory?

Okay. I might be reading into it. Regardless, I don’t want to hear such thoughts.

The “voice,” of course, is my own. It’s the part of me that’s practical, realistic, and wise. My inner sage. She wants to keep me on my toes.

We rising seniors have convinced ourselves to be upbeat about aging 24/7: Getting on is good.

But it isn’t always good, is it? asks my inner sage. The old gray mare…blah blah blah. Get real, sistah, you ain’t getting any younger and $h-t happens.

As the Buddhists say, “Don’t argue with reality.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll continue to be a cheerleader for aging boldly and fiercely. I blow the whistle on ageism. I’m even brave enough to call myself an old lady. Still, my inner sage has a point:

It’s not a bad idea to imagine a future Melinda Blau, forced to deal with whatever life throws at her.

I’m up for the challenge. I’ve watched my old ladies do it. They have bad days and get bad news. Still, they accept what is and plan for the worst rather than deny that it could/might/probably will happen.

They keep going, no matter what.

No doubt, my inner sage learned a thing or two from Ruth, my 21-years-older aunt. My father’s youngest sister, Ruth, was my first much older female confidante. As my aunt, she filled in the blanks of our family history. But she also felt like a close friend, one farther ahead in the journey and willing to share what she saw. And she saw everything.

I didn’t know it then, but Ruth was the template for my old ladies, a cadre of women in their 90s and 100s.

When Ruth felt her mind slipping away in her early eighties, she asked me to meet her at familiar places — her beauty parlor in Manhattan or the hotel lobby a few doors down. Those were the years she urged me to “stay close.”

Ruth was a straight shooter who said it like it is. “I’m not an optimist or a pessimist,” she repeated often. “I’m a realist.”

I’m old enough now to know what she meant.

Now excuse me while I go do the leg exercise my friend Marge demonstrated when she was 103 — you know, the one where you sit in a chair and get up without using your arms. Hopefully, that will work my stand-and-pee muscles. (We’ll leave why I don’t like to sit in public bathrooms for another story.)

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