I suppose that most of us have our own definitions for aging, and I’m not talking about fine wines. When we’re ten years old, we can’t wait to become teenagers who begin dating, partly because it means access to the family car with that jingle of keys in our pockets or purses and the joyful belief (or pretense) that we’ve reached a level of maturity that gives us carte blanche that funnels its way too often down to the freedom to imbibe in alcohol or appear grown up with cigarettes puffing up our frail egos in the pretense that we’re finally mature in that universal quest for independence.
Of course, as teens we don’t yet understand the burden of mortgages, utility bills, gas-guzzling vehicles or changing dirty diapers. That curtain doesn’t go up until most of us reach our twenties and the sometimes bleak landscape of aging faster every year until our hair begins its quest to turn silver or simply leave the premises completely.
I recall that as a teenager, I heard wonderful stories and memories from elderly relatives so that now I comprehend why such shared recollections become significant parts of who we are. I’ve reached the stage where I can’t always recall where I placed my keys or a book I was reading, but I can remember vividly events and conversations from the 1950’s. Seeing the humor and similar happenings in the lives of my aging friends makes it possible for me to see that I’m not alone and that the TV remote has to be SOMEWHERE. JB