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ecause I am now old, please, please do not send emails asking me to cavort about in the spring rains, clad in nothing but purple underwear. I won’t do it. Don’t ask me to plan a skydiving jump on my 90th with a buff young dude attached to my back, because I won’t do it. Do not suggest that I do idiotic, wacko things because I’m old, because “time’s running out and I’ll regret it if I don’t.” I won’t. I would not do those stupid things when I was young, so I won’t do them now. Do not insist I swim with sharks because . . . why would I? The ocean is their turf and what they decide to have for lunch that day might be me, even if I have become tough and stringy, and that’s their right, so I will not do that. Do not ask me to discuss and laugh at uncontrollable bodily noises and functions. I won’t do it, nor will I blame the dog. Do not ask me to “share.” I do hate that annoyingly touchy-feely word. Do not ask me to reveal great worldly wisdoms just because I’ve passed 65. I don’t have any to tell, and I always counsel anyone who knows me, “If I give you advice, do exactly the opposite and you’ll be just fine.” Just because I am old, it doesn’t auto8 • MAINE SENIORS
matically make me (or anyone else) wise. Common sense is not one of my fortés, so I have no worldly wisdoms to give. And my advice to all men younger than I am or even older, do not ever dare to call me “young lady.” You will quickly discover that while I am not young any longer, it does not mean I am necessarily frail. I can—even at my advanced age—bash you a painful one to teach you a lesson in good manners. Do not dare to tell people I am 82 years “young.” You will sound like an ass, and I will know for certain that you are one. Such terminology is inappropriately cute and not in the least bit flattering. I am 82 years “old” and extremely proud of it. Now that I’m over 80, do not send me long lists of stupid, insulting, boring, untrue jokes about elderly people, usually women, because they are unfunny, degrading, ugly, stupid, insulting, boring, and untrue, and they never ever make me laugh. Read them? I won’t. If I wobble, do not tell me to see a doctor. I won’t. Old people wobble, and everyone knows that’s been happening since old people were invented. It should come as no surprise that we occasionally lose our balance, but that does not mean we’re
By LC Van Savage
losing our marbles. So just stay quiet and don’t patronize me. Just watch to see if I can steady myself. If I can’t, offer help, but for the luvva Pete, lose that deeply concerned, oh-I-so-wantto-help-you, you-poor-fragile-hopeless old-thing look on your face. With that look, you’ll maybe find out that we elderlies have a lot of “I-can-stillstrike-you” strength left in our withered old arms. Do not rush over and offer arms and ambulances. Someday, if you’re very lucky, you’ll be old too, Cookie, and then you’ll understand. I’ve never gone into a swivet when men I don’t know have called me lovenames like “darling,” “dear,” “sweetie,” or “honey.” But, if any of you dare to call me such names with the attitude that says you think I’m an imbecilic old geezer who won’t know the difference, beware my wrath. And lastly, young Dr. Whippersnapper, if we have not been formally introduced, please absolutely do not call me by my given name when first we meet in the examination room. Ask first. After all, I’m old enough to have had a torrid affair with your grandfather. So, as the song says, show me some R. E. S. P. E. C. T. You ask, I’ll grant. Maybe. And I’ll call you “Doctor,” unless you’d prefer “Sparky.” Thank you very much.
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Because I Am Old
