Am I Old Yet?

My mother would be 100 years old now had she not died six years ago.  In her last years she lived in a wonderful nursing home here in San Francisco. I visited her every week. She no longer remembered that she had ever had a son and thought that I was her favorite cousin who was her childhood friend. The man for whom she mistook me was a good 40 years older than me but had resembled me slightly in that he was also bald.  What she could never understand is why I looked so old, especially compared to her.  She thought that I looked old because I was in my late 50s then and probably looked at least 40, and she was sure that she was still in her 30s.

Nothing could make her believe that she had ever had a son and nothing would make her believe that she was not in her 30s. I could understand her forgetting someone whose birth was painfully unintended.  But how could she forget that she was old?  Every moment reminded her that she was old, feeble and unable to take care of herself, and yet she was so sure.

Now I know.

I am in my seventh decade and my body knows it all too well.  Almost every part of it has been tested beyond the recommended limits and the result has been continuous malfunction and pain. These are constant reminders of my condition and age and yet I don’t believe it.

I repeatedly think of myself as a young man in his mid-30s.

When I see people of that age, I think that they are like me.  I still look at an attractive young woman as though she were still available to me only to again be made to feel invisible as the object of my admiration looks past me to smile and wave at an approaching contemporary.  I am no longer of interest to them no matter how great mine is for them.

Surely, I am still young.  I see so much as though for the first time.  My mind is still full of new ideas and dreams of Utopian futures.  I love not only the classic songs of Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, and Joan Baez but also love Cold Play, Death Cab for Cutie, and Sarah McLachlan.  I still love nature, cars, dogs, Persian carpets, beauty and philosophy the way I did when I was in my 20s. I can still fit the tuxedo I wore at my sister’s first wedding when I was 17, but have no occasion to wear it.

And when I see “elders” - those in their late 40s and beyond - I credit them for doing as well as they are in their advanced years.  Part of me thinks that the “elders” also see me as their junior. Some of these presumed elders look to me to be at least 150 years old even though I know that people don’t last that long.

I confess that at times I have been tempted to go up to such advanced seniors and ask them just how terribly old they were or whether they were actually the oldest people on earth. I wonder how many people have been tempted to approach me in that way?  How many wonder whether I am traveling on my last legs? And how many elders look to me as their senior?

I can still walk long distances but can no longer run.  I can still sing my favorite songs, but I can no longer dance to them.  I always listen carefully, but can’t always hear.  I look with eyes wide open, but am not always able to see clearly.  I find steep hills and staircases menacing and can no longer suffer cold wind and fog that seem to pierce me like arrows through cotton candy.

Am I still too young to imagine myself old or have I gotten so old that I can’t remember that I am no longer young?

Am I really old yet?