The Slippery Slope of Aging and the Need for Larger Fonts…

A few years ago, I noticed that I would have to hold a book further and further away to read. When I needed to stretch further than I could reach, I realized that I had arrived at the age of “readers”.

While picking up party supplies at the local Dollar Store, I casually slipped a pair of readers into my basket. That night, reading my book in bed was a joy! The words were clear and bright. It was marvelous and also my own little secret. Like grey hair. Those little suckers were quietly covered up too.

My secret soon became public. I was at the gym peering at the stair climber console trying to squint my way through getting started. Likely more urgent was that I liked the TV on the console and couldn’t see the channels. No matter how hard I squinted, it was one big flashing blur. Nothing screams “OLD LADY IN THE HOUSE” more than wearing a pair of readers on your head during a gym work out. True story because when the younger members saw me come in, they quickly turned down the music and switched the station to hits of the 80’s. At least it wasn’t “golden oldies”. Ugh.

My readers went from an occasional companion to having a pair in every room, two pairs in my purse and the emergency pair in the car. “Don’t leave home without them” was not about my children or American Express, it was my readers.

With failing eyesight, I can’t see dust or grime or chin hairs until it becomes overwhelmingly obvious. Not terrible when it applies to dust or grime but discovering a lone chin hair that has gone rogue is a totally different issue. “How long has THAT been growing?” and “why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Plucking eyebrows is also tricky. I have to lean into the mirror, inch the readers slightly down my nose and then carefully angle the tweezers around the rims. The trick is being able to balance the readers so that I can see the dissident hairs and pluck appropriately. Without my readers, things can go bad very quickly.

I need things supersized. This includes labels, directions to medications, the font on my phone and menus. Even the best readers can’t help me in dimly lit restaurants with a romantic candle. Get rid of the candle and could someone please bring me a flashlight!

The struggle continues in the shower. At hotels I have to strategically place those little itty bitty bottles around the tub. Front right corner is the shampoo, front left is the conditioner and rear right corner is the body wash. One slip of the system and I am washing out of order. Even at home this is a problem. Finally, I got smart. C is for conditioner and S is for shampoo.

Readers were easy solutions but they were just one visual form that announced the aging process had begun. Tank tops are another.

I always wondered why women of a “seasoned” vintage wore tank tops in the winter. I get that wardrobe choice now. It’s not fashion, it’s survival apparel.

It takes real self discipline to be in a meeting and not bat an eye when suddenly your body catches fire. Staring straight ahead, you continue with the meeting. “Nothing to see, everything is fine“. No acknowledgement that your body is about to combust into flames. Beads of sweat start to form on the upper lip and brows; armpits become open taps and water cascades down the back like a waterfall. Quick action is required because at any moment people are going to start noticing the puddles pooling on the floor. Diversion strategies are critical. My favourite is to point towards the ceiling and ask “is that a spider“? I just need those few seconds to mop my brow, whip off the jacket, flap the blouse like a fan and regain my composure. These are the superpowers that I wasn’t expecting in my 50’s.

C is for Crisis.

The readers, the tank tops, the grey hair and the new spare tire were public admissions of getting older. I felt moments of “ageism” creeping into my reality. Parts of me were breaking down including knees and shoulders. I question hem lengths of appropriateness and I sure can’t attend exercise classes that include an excess of “jumping”. Was the best of me now behind me? There lay the sadness. I saw readers as the start of the decline and the years ahead were a hell of a lot shorter than the years behind. A point of life crisis.

Somehow I had let the “adulting” wear me away. I traded in my hopes and dreams for “respectable” and “responsible”. I gave into the concept that a “good mother” wouldn’t put herself before her family. A “good mother” would be last. The last to eat, the last to bed and the last to take time for herself. I bought into this invisible code of ridiculous conduct and now I was faced with the fear that my next decades of life would involve a tasteful wardrobe made up of ugly flowered blouses, comfortable shoes and bad light jazz.

C is for COVID19 and Courage.

A pandemic has brought panic but also an abundance of time to rethink my drink and recheck reality. Many self-help authors are more than willing to share their secrets of their incredible success but I am not sure I relate to “them”. Where my real inspiration has taken place is with those that are my friends. Here is where I found courage in action.

One friend has started an athletic apparel company, another is following her dreams and starting a business that involves cooking for seniors while others are embracing new careers and making moves to pivot their business models in response to the new economy. I am in awe of those who are winning with their fitness goals, starting new hobbies and I am humbled by those who have chosen to consciously “stop” and give generously to the needs of their family and friends. These people are not collapsing but rising and rising strong.

And if that wasn’t enough inspiration, Google has more! Judi Dench became the darling of the screen in her 60’s, Mary Kay kickstarted her career in her 50’s and even after a brief stint in jail, Martha Stewart rose to a new level of stardom in her 70’s.

C is for Change.

To follow along my theme of bravery, I need to reset my perspective. I am the one that chose to conform to some nebulous playbook; a weird form of societal convention and that has to change. My choice moving forward is to give life to the 18 year old that still lives within; to bring back that gal who loves to crank the music and dance on tables. Maybe my “readers” are to see that the best is yet to come thanks to a life full of experience and well lived life lessons.

To you my friends, thank you for the inspiration to be more than I thought I could be. There is power in reaching the age of the “reader” and I vow to rock the tank top!

With love to all.

Shelley