I don't think about being old until it smacks me in the face or often in the mirror. I'm this 25 year-old inside looking like an elderly on the outside. An elderly is an old person; the term coined by my 9 year-old grandson. A typical conversation with him goes (we have driven up to see his neighbour, an even older lady than me out cleaning her walk), "You elderlies all get along. Like you and Irene."
Me: "I like Irene. She's a nice person."
Sash: "________________"(names town where I live) "is a place for elderlies and Grandma, you know them all."
My granddaughter (age 6) says, "Grandma, if you just had a slurpee, your wrinkles would disappear." (I suspect who wanted the slurpee.) When I don't bite, she adds, "But I like your wrinkles and your skin is soft." She strokes my wrinkled cheek.
My son suggests installing a walk-in bathtub because, "You will need it." What??? I have been trying to stay spry.
Clothes aren't made for elderly females. Wrinkled cleavage just doesn't cut it. Tight pants do nothing for the sagging ass. And displaying a midriff? Some things can't be unseen. Wouldn't it be possible to have fashionable clothes that aren't faddish and that have more conservative tastes in mind? And I DON'T want to hear about Tan Jay. I'm not into floral blouses just yet.
Every time I mislay something or forget it, the spectre of dementia rises. I take the memory quizzes that are posted on Facebook and am delighted when I have the Einsteinian memory. Yet, yet, I know that no quiz is going to say "sorry, you've lost it." It's like the IQ quizzes, no message will announce cheerily, "o, dear. IQ 87, dull, normal."
I could go on. Instead I will remember the good things about being an elderly. I'm around to visit my grandchildren. I'm spry enough to go on good long walks. I can still enjoy a glass or two of wine, although soon after, I'm enjoying a nap on Mr. Couch. I'm adjusting to being "an elderly."
I've been married a long time and often write about everyday events.