growing older

My brother just celebrated one of those milestone birthdays: his 60th. I still can’t quite believe I have a brother that age, or that next year will be my big milestone: 50. (Even as I write that, the inner child in me is throwing herself down on the rug and having a tantrum: “I don’t wanna grow up and you can’t make me!”)

At some point I started dreading, rather than celebrating, my birthday. I’d like to get back that sense of joyous anticipation I had when I couldn’t wait to be 6 or 10 or 18 or 21. Even my 30th, the one that so many women in particular seem to dread, was a pretty happy birthday. However, the following year, when I was suddenly “over 30,” may have been the start of the Great Birthday Avoidance.

I guess part of the problem is that I don’t feel much older than 30 mentally. Many of my friends are in their late 30s, and I don’t have much interest in the topics grown-ups tend to discuss, like mortgages, saving for the kids’ education, house renovations . . . so when I catch an unexpected glimpse of myself in a mirror or a reflection in a store window, I’m startled to see that middle-aged stranger staring back at me when I still feel like a kid much of the time (other than a few new aches and pains that tell me my body is moving forward whether the rest of me follows or not).

Of course, when I complain about getting old, my mother retorts, “If you think you’re old, imagine how I feel, having a daughter your age.” Good point. I hope I can age with the health and good attitude she has. I’m certainly struggling with the attitude.

I asked my brother, half-jokingly, if he felt old, and his immediate reply was “Nope.” He still has a boyish enthusiasm for playing with his two mini dachshunds, golfing, fishing, cooking, and life in general. I tried to look at him objectively a few times over the weekend, to see a 60-year-old man instead of my brother, but I couldn’t. I wonder if he still sees me as his kid sister, albeit maybe slightly less annoying now.

I suppose part of the fear of getting older are the inevitable losses. My eyesight has been going downhill for years -- reading for a living will do that. I’ve noticed a few physical things that are tougher for me to do now, and the groans and sighs that I sometimes make getting up or sitting down are becoming more frequent. Those occasional memory lapses -- I’ve already taken to grabbing pen and paper if anyone starts to tell me something that seems remotely important -- are still more annoying than scary. But each time I have to grope for a name or a detail, it makes me wonder: Is this the beginning of the mental decline?

When I hear Mom talk about so many friends and relatives of her generation who are gone, I know that I’ll be facing some serious losses in my life sooner now, rather than in the far distant future. (Granted, I could walk out the door tomorrow and be hit by a bus, and all this anxiety would be for naught -- but then again, deep inside, don’t we all figure we’re going to live to be at least in the 90s and die peacefully in our sleep?)

Of course, all this anxiety really is for naught, since there’s not a lot I can do about getting older. I’m not one of those who’s going to go the botox route or invest in a lot of those anti-aging creams. (My oil-prone skin, the bane of my teen/college years, has at least been a blessing in keeping me from too many wrinkles.) But I’m trying to eat better, do regular workouts, and I’m going to start going to the doctor more often. . . . Honest. Although more and more, when I’m at the doctor, the dentist, the optometrist, I hear “Well, at your age --” and I know there’s going to be another little bump on that life journey. On the other hand, maybe I should try to focus a little more on enjoying the journey and less on dreading the final stop.

LH