‘She Could See No Good Reason to Act Her Age’

Musings inspired by a fridge magnet

My Anne Taintor refrigerator magnet, depicting a mature woman coiffed, made up, and dressed in 1950s fashion, serves as a daily affirmation though I have no desire to attain that level of grooming. This piece is dedicated to Quasimodo, Michael Trigg, and Nancy Peckenham — you’re inspirational, and perhaps you, too, see no good reason to “act your age.”

Hubby, who is 66, likes to listen to a radio show called The Mens Room on 99.9 KISW, The Rock. A favorite bit is where people call in and, before they answer whatever the silly question is for that day, they are asked, “sober, or not sober?”

Taking a leaf from The Mens Room guys' book, I started writing this after consuming an edible — legal here in Washington State — then wrote the rest sober. Other times I wrote while impaired, it either made no sense to me later or I didn’t like it. Here, it feels trite but somewhat powerful, and I kinda like it, so it stayed. You be the judge if I shouldn’t do that again.

‘Sober Me’ Thinks This Is an Essay

What is acting your age? I don’t believe it’s about imposing or accepting restrictions outside your personal limitations. If it’s simply “adulting,” I’ve been doing that in essentially the same way since finding myself on my own at 19. I don’t like to be told what to do, even by myself. Once I figured that out, convincing myself to do what needs to be done became easier. I just give myself explicit permission not to do it.

Childhood isn’t the best time of life, in my opinion. The freedoms of adulthood hold much more appeal.

Most of the time, I feel 10 to 15 years younger than I really am — never “old.” Pandemic me has silver hair on top and the remains of my February 2020 salon dye job, reddish with blonde highlights, below. My profile picture, a work photo for which I put on a little makeup, is from 2017.

My brother, who shot up to 6’3” as a teen, remembers being told that because he looked so much older at a young age, he’d probably look fairly young later in life. Neither of us has many wrinkles. In my teens, I was often taken for older and usually had no trouble ordering drinks once I dived into the adult dating pool at 18.

I was last carded buying wine at Safeway in 2018. It began happening periodically when I started dyeing my hair in my mid-40s — after a woman on a downtown Seattle street laughed at my grey temples, and I was ready for a change anyway. I miss the funny reactions of clerks checking my ID — from double-takes to anger. One asked if my ID was real. An angry Walmart clerk carded me on two separate occasions. Both times, she complained she was the same age as me.

Dyed hair made others see me as younger for longer than was entirely good for my mental health. The doctor verified my birth year at an appointment 2 or 3 years ago, saying she thought someone had made a typo, ’58 instead of ’68. That’ll never happen again, with this hair! Oh well.

I didn’t think of myself as “a senior” until last year, planning excursions around stores' senior shopping hours. Target offended me early on in the pandemic, turning me away at the door for being under 65. Didn’t matter that I barely let hubby go anywhere because he had more risk factors, and I was shopping for our household. “Bring back your husband, and we’ll let you in,” they said. Idiots.

It felt odd this year to wish I were older so I could get my coronavirus vaccine sooner, along with hubby. My appointment for the first shot is next Friday.

Teenage me contemplated the then-far-off Year 2000 and tried to figure out how turning 42 would feel. I thought I’d feel “old” then, yet it was simply another birthday. From my current vantage point of 62, contemplating 2050 feels much the same only with a better understanding and acknowledgment that nothing lasts forever. Will turning 92 feel “old”? Or like more of the same, with a feebler body?

I’m fortunate to be in reasonably good health. The old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be, but for years I’ve aimed at reaching 102. I’d like to see in New Year’s Day 2061 if I can survive 14,517 more days. What marvels unknown now will be commonplace then? I’m slightly worried about 2057, though, because several ages ending in 9 have been tough years or made me feel older. Will 99 be a jackpot (shades of the classic Heinlein story) in some way?

Nineteen-year-old me is still looking out of these presbyopic eyes but with more life experience. Barring anything short of death, must that end? I don’t think so. I hope not.

‘Impaired Me’ Wrote Free Verse

Why not do what you want? Assuming it’s not wrong. Have faith in your own instincts.

Were you raised to do your best? To follow the rules? Trust yourself then, and relax. It’s all good, even when things are actually not so good.

If you overcame your bad start, good for you. You already know how trustworthy you are.

Don’t be so afraid to look foolish. Don’t let this moment pass by.

I’m still me inside. Curious. Interested in learning. Wanting to know what comes next and what’s out there. Outside’s just on the other side of any door. Open it and see.

Hubby and I — with amazing timing — gave up drinking alcohol in December 2019. Upon retirement last June, we decided to try edibles, and recently agreed we could enjoy a little sake with a special dinner sometimes. There are no rules when you’re retired.

“Age is something that doesn’t matter unless you’re a cheese.” ― Luis Buñuel

You’ll find my other personal essays here.

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