Aging

The other day, I searched, “Is 50 a senior citizen?”

Some months ago, I met with a formerly close friend/interest and when I mentioned my age, he recoiled.

I was relieved to be enlightened about how he saw me, “I thought you were around my age.” The recoil said I was removed from gaze, no longer a sexual object, and if he kept in touch, it’s because I am just a person.

In the reflection on my phone’s screen, I see the soft vertical creases on my neck when it turns a certain way or flexes. I mildly pinch it and feel the loss of elasticity.

Little pains remind me to fix my posture and work out. Or a sharp pain down the shoulder as I lay still, thinking, “Is this it? Am I going to die right now? But I haven’t cleared my browser history.”

Sometimes, memory is a challenge but I’m frequently shoveling new information into my brain. If Nicole Kidman’s name is of no use to me, it goes into deep storage so I can now relay the brief history of the Strachan clan which I learned over the weekend. Plus, my memory took a very hard hit after my mother passed.

I understand the elderly better now. One day, you‘re 25. The next, your body is 78. At your core, you feel young. But the body says you aren’t and society treats you differently. Dismissively.

When I look into an elderly person’s eyes, I try to imagine what they were like around 30, after their brain fully formed. Like Jan from yesterday, “You must have broken some hearts!” “Two! That’s it!?” “(nods).”

My heart breaks for people a lot more easily these days.