How Old is Old?

Birthdays ending with zero are supposed to gin up angst, right? For some, this angst may be related to visions of new skin potions, increasingly frequent hair color appointments or bone density tests. For others, it could be more about regret over unmet goals or unchecked bucket list items. 

This week I turn 60. But, for some reason, I’m not feeling that angst. Maybe it’s because I’ve never bought into the black balloons and tombstone visuals about birthdays. Also, birthdays have never been a dreaded day for me.

I see birthdays as a reason for reflection, a chance to hear from old friends and a day (OK, well, maybe a week this year) to allow myself to do my favorite things. This year, those favorite things may include an early morning birthday workout, my weekly Eggs Up breakfast, a long bike ride or dog walk, happy hour and dinner with friends, a pedi and my birthday evening spent with my Sip N Strum tribe.  

But this “zero” birthday did get me to thinking about what drives my context for aging and my definition of “old.” When I was a child, I defined “old” as my parents and their friends. Anyone who had kids, went to work, drove a station wagon or kept a weekly beauty parlor appointment was old. I always assumed that when you "got old," you always wore stockings, had good handwriting and never slept late. Fortunately, by that definition, I’m not old.

Third birthday party

Who Defines Old?
I grew up with a frame of reference about age that revolved primarily around grade levels and ages of siblings. I went to the same relatively small school from seventh until twelfth grade. The caste system was strict among age groups and grade levels. For the most part, there wasn't a lot of socializing between grades other than a few dating relationships where the boy was almost always the older one of the pair. Rare was the lasting friendship that crossed the grade level boundaries.

Once I got to college, I quickly found the age lines blurring. I joined a sorority where my pledge class was divided equally among freshmen, sophomores and juniors. Much to my surprise, those juniors who would have seemed "old" by my high school standards were in the same position as I was negotiating the challenges of first year sorority membership.

When I got my first college job working with adults who expected me to act like them, I adjusted my definition again. These adults were old to me but asked me to call them by their first names and actually assumed I was mature and competent. My college jobs helped me understand that "old" people (adults) expected "young" people (me) to behave like they did in the workplace. I was to look and act "old" (respectable, knowledgeable, competent), and they really didn't care I was 20 and they were 50.

In my first real world job, some of my parents' friends became work colleagues. The discomfort with calling them by their first names was later eclipsed by my extreme displeasure several years later being called "ma'am" for the first time. But I still wasn't old because I was hanging on to my definition of old that meant driving a station wagon and losing the ability to sleep late.

Tenth birthday party

Blurring Generations
Marriage and acquiring an extended family further muddled my definition of old. My oldest brother-in-law is 12 years older than I am. His oldest son, Jimmy, is 12 years younger than I am. Jimmy was in first grade when I graduated from high school… literally a lifetime of age difference. But today, his 48 is considerably older than many of my friends, and my 60 makes him "my age-ish." 

And while the lines on my forehead may be getting deeper, my lines about age assumptions get more blurry as much of what I value most in my life revolves around multi-generational friendships. 

I have several friends where I fall almost exactly between my friend’s age and her mother’s age. The generational lines between me and my ten nieces and nephews or my friends’ adult children have blurred into meaningful friendships. Our delightedly intergenerational neighborhood has given me friends ranging from teens to octogenarians I never would have known otherwise.

So for now, moving into 60, I’ve decided it’s not about fretting over the number – it’s about how to live it. Looking ahead, living in this season includes a generous sprinkling grace – for myself and for others – and gratitude for my many blessings. It involves staying open to unexpected adventures, seeking joy in small things and not having to strive for perfection.

60 Days to 60 – A Grace and Gratitude List
Back in September, I started a “60 days to 60" grace and gratitude list just to challenge myself to look at my daily routines through a softer lens. As I look back over my list, I see it’s filled with everyday things  - like the joy of dog walks at the lake  - as well as challenges I’ve accepted in new ways – like the rush that comes from taking the stage to play music with people I enjoy even if I don’t get it exactly right every time.

My list also includes pulling out my old Canon to start taking pictures again, letting my hair go COVID-gray, enjoying slow lake weekends with David and Flossie that have replaced long-distance travel, and learning about the birds that frequent my yard.

Then there are the list items that reflect the delight that comes from pulling off an anonymous porch drop of flowers, getting an unsolicited “just checking on how y’all are doing” text from an old friend, stopping to listen to the Eastminster Church bells every hour, or finding a new local haunt where they know our names and drink orders.

Could be a lot of the items on my 60-days list are just driven by our upside down COVID world that’s forced us to slow down. And maybe that’s a blessing too. 

Back pre-COVID, I had big plans for my 60th - a trip with girlfriends, maybe a music-filled bash on our patio. But that's not to be. For this birthday, I’m grateful to take time to celebrate these list items and look toward barging into this new 60s season not with an angst of getting old but with a focus on simply living with grace and gratitude (but still secure in knowing I’ll never be old by the measure of weekly beauty parlor visits or good handwriting:)

That said …maybe I do need to re-evaluate that weekly hair appointment thing. A friend told me a great story about her 95-year old mother who still went to the beauty parlor once a week. Her mom insisted it kept her young. Could be that weekly trip to the beauty parlor isn't such a bad thing after all!