Getting old is weird. Everyone under the age of 50 looks so young to me.
All my doctors, with the exception of one good old baby boomer like myself, look like they need a permission slip from their mother to even be there, much less be a doctor with years of college and experience.
Sometimes it’s hard to concentrate on what a young doctor is saying because I’m so distracted by their appearance. How can this person have so much knowledge and at the same time have so few wrinkles?
And it doesn’t help to tell me that these youngsters have youngsters of their own. This baby-faced guy has four kids? Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.
Yes, getting old is weird. Inside my head, I’m still 32½, multitasking to beat the band. I’ve never had much energy, but I sure had more back then than I do now. I took the kids to school, worked a full-time job, picked the kids up from after-school care, and then cooked supper, complete with dinner rolls wrapped up in a bread cozy. Then the real work started: cleaning up the kitchen (I’ve always been a messy cook), laundry, making sure the kids did their homework, and on and on.
I don’t want to leave David out of the equation. He was very good to help me. But his job had shifting hours and was very physical. When he was home, day or night, he was trying to get some much needed sleep.
Getting old is weird. I think of family vacations we took and part of me thinks it was just a few years ago and part of me knows it was at least 25 years back.
Another part of getting old, apparently, is that other people either don’t see you at all or they feel compelled to help you.
It really steams my drawers (which is incredibly uncomfortable) when people ignore me when I’m standing right there in front of them. So when I’m checking out at the grocery store and my cashier gets to talking to other cashiers, I tend to step between them so they can’t see who they are talking to. I usually have something to say that pertains to the conversation they feel is more important than their customer. Some cashiers make the transition flawlessly and immediately transfer their attention to me. Other cashiers are a bit slower. I obviously startled one teenager when I came into focus. I smiled at her and made a comment pertinent to the conversation, and she went absolutely blank. Oh, well. Someone who doesn’t or can’t talk is better than someone who can and is ignoring me.
And then there are those who are eager to help, especially when you feel you don’t need it. They open doors, lift semi-heavy objects, put your groceries in your car, reach something on the top shelf in Wal-Mart.
It used to bug me when they did these things. And then one day, I thought, “Carol! What are you doing? If you let people do things for you, that means you don’t have to do it! What a sweet deal!”
Since then, I’ve welcomed any help that has come my way. I smile and thank them, knowing that the only reason they are helping me is because I remind them of their great-grandmother.
Well, the why is not important. I’ll be June Cleaver if it means some nice young man (anyone under 50) putting the 14-pound cat litter jug in my shopping cart.
Maybe next trip to Wal-Mart, I’ll wear pearls…