IN Other Words

by Becky Slatten

I’M TURNING 60. It would be an understatement to say this milestone birthday has me a little rattled— mostly because I feel as though just yesterday I was 40-something driving around in an SUV full of hungry, ungrateful children. And then, somehow, with no warning at all, I became a 60-year-old grandmother who takes a handful of pills at bedtime. Did I doze off?

I’m not sure what I was expecting upon the completion of my 60th year on earth, but I certainly thought I would be much wiser and way more mature by now. I suppose it’s conceivable that I could live to be 100, which means I potentially have the next 40 years to grow up and maybe stop repeating the same mistakes over and over again, but I’m not holding my breath. I can remember a time when a much younger version of myself viewed all people over 60 as decrepit little grey-haired elderlies whose entire lives revolved around grandchildren and Jeopardy!. I’ve since changed my mind about that, haha!

I swear I think 60 has gotten younger than it used to be, or is it just that, now that I’m here, my perspective has changed? To me, my grandmother looked 70 years old for about 30 years; she was a tiny little grey-haired lady who got more done before lunchtime than I can get done in a week. I might look younger at 60 than she did, but she had more energy and skills than I’ll ever have. That generation went through so much adversity that by the time they turned 60, they probably felt like they earned their grey hair and didn’t care what anyone thought

about it. I, for one, attend regular meetings with my hairdresser and don’t plan to stop anytime soon. Although several of my friends are a few years younger than I am, it’s somewhat gratifying to know I’m not alone in this aging thing. Recently, I was socializing with some of these younger friends (broads in their mid-50s mind you), when I was suddenly struck with the realization that we had been discussing our various ailments and aches and pains and surgeries and medications for about an hour, and we were all completely engrossed in this topic. Besides the usual salacious gossip, I can’t even remember what we used to talk about; when and how did plantar fasciitis and Who cares? bursitis in the hip become interesting?? And if that isn’t bad enough, we were all home in bed at 10:15 after a party on a Saturday night. On the roller coaster of life, we are indeed on the steep downslope. Another significant symptom of aging among women is that we inadvertently turn into our mothers. I try to stay keenly aware of any sign that I’m starting to act and sound like mine. Unfortunately, the number one indicator is denial, so just remember that—it’s tricky. And speaking of my mother, she now has me hooked on some of the British detective shows that air on public television. I would describe them as similar to the American television shows, Matlock and Murder She Wrote, and yes, I do see those big red flags. You know you’re watching “old-people TV” when every commercial is advertising either a Jitterbug phone, a walk- in tub or anything to do with Medicare Part B benefits—whatever those are. I’m not that old yet. Sometimes getting older feels like one big cliché: time flies, age is just a number, it’s hell getting old, old age ain’t for sissies. You’ve heard them all, and they’re all true, every last one of them. But who cares? Attitude is everything, and I love that my husband refers to this birthday as my Diamond Jubilee. I’ll take a birthday over a funeral any day, and turning 60 just makes me realize that those birthdays will just keep coming faster and faster until they don’t. If I’ve learned anything at all in 60 years, it’s this: the only things that really matter are the things that really matter, and I have those in abundance. Cheers!