The Joy of "Ageless"

I celebrated my 65th birthday this week secure in the fact I’m not yet “old.” That’s because I continue failing to check the boxes that I believe would qualify me for that definition.

When I was growing up, “old” meant looking, dressing and acting a certain way. That involved wearing pantyhose, keeping a weekly beauty parlor appointment, never sleeping late, and always wearing lipstick. If that’s the standard, I’m not old yet … and I really don’t plan to be.

I haven’t bought pantyhose in 25 years. I go to a salon, not a beauty parlor - and only every couple of months for a trim and touch-up. The closest I get to lipstick is Burt’s Bees tinted lip balm stashed in every pocket, drawer and bag. And yes, I can still sleep late like a teenager.

But hitting the Medicare-qualifying milestone of “old” in the eyes of the government prompted me to consider more deeply this whole idea of “aging.”

What exactly is old?

How old do you have to be before you qualify as “old”?

Is it when you start having those age-related medical tests like a colonoscopy, mammogram and bone density test?

Is it when you qualify for the senior discount at the pharmacy?

Is it when the server calls you ma’am instead of miss?

Is it when those old people cartoons on napkins don’t seem so funny anymore?

I’m finding it increasingly difficult to look at random people and tell their age. Growing up, I identified “my age” as someone in my grade at school. When I moved back to Columbia ten years after college graduation, the “my age” definition seemed to have shifted.

People I once thought of as “way older” or “way younger” when I was a kid suddenly seemed “my age.” I’ve laughed often with an adult friend who was a cool, senior cheerleader when I was a nerdy eighth grader. Now we say we went to high school together.

I’m on the tail end of the Baby Boomers and the leading edge of friends starting to retire. I’ve long since received my first AARP invitation and now technically qualify to live in my parents’ retirement community.

Someone recently told me she thought I was “aging gracefully.” Is that a nice way of saying she noticed I’d stopped coloring my hair?

So, I’m seeking a descriptor for somewhere between “middle age” and “old” …  especially if “old” involves lipstick, beauty parlors, panty hose and sleepless nights.

Maybe that word is “ageless.”

Does age even matter?

I’ve had so many conversations with friends recently about how much chronological age even matters. Is it just a number on a driver’s license? Should age drive our decisions? Should we consider age more a matter of how we feel and not how we look?

A painful elbow injury last summer reminded me that age does affect how I feel. I’m fairly active. I know my limits and when I can push them. While I’m often the oldest in a workout class, I can typically keep up. But when I asked my doctor what I could do to heal my elbow and prevent another injury, all he could offer was, “Stop aging.”

I recently came up on several black and white photos of myself doing something I enjoy immensely – playing the uke with my band. The photos were taken about eight years ago and clearly illustrate joy, concentration, fun, focus and passion in playing.

But when I looked closer, I noticed the lens that had reflected joy, fun and passion the first time I looked was also capturing my age spots, wrinkled neck and sagging jawline.

 Then I caught myself.

I immediately realized I was judging myself in a way I’d never judge my friends. I quickly recalibrated my thought process recalling how one friend had said she thought I looked like a “badass” in the photos (I took that as positive feedback).

Maybe this friend had also noticed the age spots, sagging jawline and wrinkled neck. But what really came through was the fact we were enjoying the heck out of something we were doing just for the joy of it.

And that’s what I call ageless!

(photo credit: Shell Suber)