Apparently, it’s official: I’m old.
Time magazine thinks so. Within days of my birthday a few weeks ago, they sent me a note in the mail, asking me to renew my subscription. For the senior citizen rate.
Catherine danced around the house fairly crowing: “It’s because you’re old.”
Remember my trip to the eye doctor a few months ago? I’ve become one of those people who holds the newspaper at arm’s length. My arm is never long enough. Or else, I’ve pulled my specs up onto my forehead so I can press the paper up against my nose to read it. I’m sure it’s entertaining to watch — especially when I’m, say, in the market trying to read labels.
I’m supposed to switch back and forth between the two pairs of glasses, but can’t be bothered. My mother suggested I wear the second pair on a chain around my neck. Needless to say, I can’t bring myself to do that.
There are spots on my hands that I can’t in good conscience call freckles. And not only is my hair turning silver, I swear I saw a gray eyebrow hair. Catherine assured me it was just the way the bathroom light was hitting my face, but I’m not so sure.
These days, either the TV is watching me as I drool on the couch or else I’m looking at the bedroom ceiling in the wee hours.
And I’m forgetting things. I’ve left cooked vegetables in the microwave overnight; locked the keys in the car — finding them only after turning the whole house upside down; left laundry in the dryer… for days; missed some key birthdays; left the house without deodorant (sorry co-workers). At my Jazzercise class Tuesday, I got a good third of the way through a song I’ve taught at least 15 times before I remembered the choreography.
Hours before on the same day, my cell phone rang as I was driving to work. It was the dermatologist’s office. I had made an appointment for a full body skin scan — itself a sign of my age — and they were calling because I was supposed to have been there 30 minutes before. How embarrassing, especially since I forgot one of Catherine’s appointments a few weeks ago.
Lots of senior moments, but perhaps the biggest sign of the passing years (miles?) is how I end my week these days.
When I was in high school, Friday night meant emptying a can of hairspray on my ‘do, painting my eyelids violet or green, slicking on some watermelon Lip Smackers, slipping into my Sassoons and heading to Rye Playland for skate night. There, I would lace on a pair of rental skates and inch my way along the rink’s perimeter to the pulsing sounds of ’80s Top 40 (or the salad days of rap, a la the Sugar Hill Gang) until someone took pity on me and helped me glide out to center ice. There was the fun — people skating backward, spinning and showing off. I clung to friends, or worked to stay upright until it was time to end the night with pizza or french fries. It was great fun. Still I wished I could hurry up and be a grown-up.
Joke’s on me.
There was no skating tonight. I came home from work, did the marketing, folded towels, put the dishes away, gathered a load of darks to start in the morning and now sit here in my pajamas and robe, slathered in night cream and a thick coat of hand lotion for extra-dry skin.
Something is seriously wrong with this picture.