The Proudly Old Are Happy Even if They Don’t Look Good for Their Age

Hey, you middle-agers who think you’re already over the hill, let us be your beacon of hope!

Is it really a compliment to say to someone, “You look young for your age”? Admittedly, I never tire of hearing it, but what do those words even mean?

What should an almost-79-year-old look like? The anti-ageist activist in me tries not to smile or say thank you, but, really, why should I be flattered? That I look good is a gift, mostly an accident of genetics.

Even with makeup, I don’t look young. That ship has sailed.

And here’s the irony: I write and talk a lot about being “old” — what it is and can be, as well as the dangers of trashing ourselves as we age. I do so, knowing full well that some of you reading this would rather not think about aging.

It’s depressing, you say. I shouldn’t use the word old. Even my French friend Françoise cautioned me, during our short-lived language lessons, to substitute the more subtle âgée instead of calling myself vielle.

But I ask, why not say I’m “old”?

Admittedly, I could substitute the latest entry in the Alternate-Words-for-Old Dictionary: “perennials.”

…ever-blooming, curious people of ALL ages who know what’s happening in the world, stay current with technology, and have friends of all ages.

Sounds like a club I’d like to join. An “ever-blooming” person is a happy one. A happy person likes herself. Accepts herself. Would probably be okay with old.

Isn’t it ultimately pointless to look for a “better” word? Senior citizens? elders? olders? schmolders? You can’t put lipstick on a pig. We are who we are.

Instead of a new word, how about a better definition of “old” — one that assumes we all have a right to take a bite out of life and taste its deliciousness…regardless of our age.

Girls, guys, c’mon! Let’s muster a little geezer pride.

What’s wrong with defiantly and triumphantly calling ourselves old — or describing some of those we admire as old?

Nothing…as long as you are not tempted to add “but still…,” as in “She’s old but still beautiful/athletic/sharp as a tack.”

We must strip the word of its sting and demote it to a garden-variety descriptor. Instead, say, “She’s old and…” [fill in other appropriate adjectives].

To describe a single person, we need an assortment of adjectives. I see myself as old and…kind, generous, creative, friendly, persistent, assertive, energetic…for starters.

As for my appearance, Nature is in charge. It’s mostly a crap shoot and often a surprise.

But that’s true at any age. We look how we look. It also depends on who’s looking.

I haven’t tried to subvert the march of time — relax the wrinkles, banish the sun spots, erase the lines, or smooth out the skin on my neck. Truth is, that ship was never in the harbor.

It’s fine if you tweak, surgically or otherwise; it’s your face. But I’ve come to know (and every day, try to appreciate) my assorted crannies and geometric shapes. Though some days they give me pause, I wouldn’t be me without them.

Age is more than a number.

My mother thought she was “old” (and that her life was essentially over) at 57 when my father left her for her best friend. I thought she was “young” when she died six years later at 63.

We all age differently, both because of our roots and the particular historical moment that shaped us. Battalions of us Boomers — not surprisingly — are busy reinventing ourselves in ways my mother’s generation could never have imagined: exploring, experimenting, rejoicing in life, rejecting negative cultural messages.

Age be damned, we reach out instead of withdrawing. We continue to seek novelty, even as we enjoy a new sense of contentment. Whether we trek to foreign lands or stay close to home, we are engaged in life. We don’t give in or give up.

We are realists — the clock ticks for everyone. But we try not to fret that old age — really old age — is around the corner.

At least, some of us don’t.

Hey, you in the aging-sucks camp, you can’t stop the river.

Ageing, famously, ain’t for sissies. It happens (if we’re lucky). Denial and negativity only make it worse.

So, you worriers out there, who feel “washed up” at fifty (or earlier) and tend to bitch about “getting older,” this message is for you:

Get off that pity pot. Stop wasting time on what you can’t change. You’re here now. Don’t squander the opportunity.

If you’re lucky…

…you’ll be like one of my old ladies (even if you’re a man): You’ll get to go around that corner and find enjoyment in whatever’s there.

If you’re lucky…

…you’ll age bravely and wisely. You’ll keep meeting new people, going to unfamiliar places, accepting challenges.

If you’re lucky…

you’ll help luck along by taking care of yourself, by moving and eating well, by taking a page from the 2000-year-old man, who famously quipped, “I keep myself nice.”

If you’re lucky…

…the Fates or the Force or the Universe or God will be with you. You will suffer only minor illnesses or more serious will be well-handled by caring medical professionals you can afford.

If you’re lucky…

…you will realize how fortunate you are, and you’ll want to pay it forward. You’ll find ways of giving back.

If you’re really lucky…

… you’ll be like Marge, who lived to 104. Endearing and witty, a savvy investor until the end, she was “young for her age” and had no problem calling herself “old.”

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