The term Octogenarian portends a draconian vision of my future. Having reached this milestone a couple of weeks ago, I decided I like the newer demographic – eighty is the new sixty. Not that I kid myself.
If eighty is the new sixty how come every time I pass a mirror a vision of my Irish grandma appears. I have to remind myself, that she was beautiful on the inside and died with all her original teeth.
She would be shocked to see what eighty-year-old women wear today. For instance, her shopping outing had its own stringent dress code; cotton stockings, sturdy shoes, a head covering of some sort and GLOVES. I and most women my age throw on workout gear and sneakers. That is if we leave the house at all to shop.
Age eighty brought swift changes in the quality of mail I receive. A shot of tequila helps to recover my happy self. The cremation services survey topped the list of burial plots, assisted living fliers and personal care product discounts. Having never been cremated, how could I complete an unbiased survey?
It is best to avoid pop culture terms entirely. Being ghosted is a notch above being marginalized. At age eighty any reference to ghosts’ hits too close to home.
The one negative about arriving at eight zero milestones is ageism. Not sure at what age it begins – maybe sixty? The other side of this issue is most believe the filter between the aging brain and mouth doesn’t work (a convenience). Transgressions can be addressed without regard to political correctness.
I don’t believe the essence of who we are changes that much as we age. By the time one has reached eight decades, live and let live is a philosophy.
Arriving at age eighty is a gift and the only thank you required is to be happy, kind and pass it forward.
Categories: Biased, Unbalanced and Politically Incorrect
I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.