Rip Van Winkle: The Upside

Photo credit here.

Winter, 2012

Now that my time machine has hurtled forward a few decades, ejected me onto my ass, and gone up in a thick cloud of black smoke; I am stuck at age 48. At least, until I become stuck at age 49. After which I will become stuck at age 50. And so on. Unto death. But things on Planet Middle Age aren’t as bad as I would have thought even two months ago. For example…let me share one puzzling outcome of my crash landing:

I am developing a genuine fondness for Old People.

Old People are endemic to my church, where the median age is about 70, and where, until recently, I have been a bona fide Young Adult. There are no children at my church, or if there are, they are in hiding. We had a nursery once but we closed it because no babies had turned up for the better part of a year. I’m not sure why I’m still attending. Admittedly, my Old People are the best Old People you can find anywhere; however, they are Old. Most of the other Young Adults have long since jumped ship, and the Old People are dying off at the rate of about one per week.

Each Sunday I watch from an emotionally safe distance as the Old People move about in a routine so well choreographed, it would put an NFL coach to shame—they in their Sunday finery and coiffed hair, and I in my skinny jeans and hoodies. I smell Coty face powder and Estee Lauder. I know that if I peek in the men’s closets, I’ll find pairs of white Reeboks reserved for their Saturday romance with the riding mower. Sometimes I think of the Old People as busy bees, cheerfully tending the hive, doing and saying what they always have, pitifully oblivious to their imminent demise. I don’t really want to know them. I especially don’t want to be them.

Things look a little different since the time machine crashed. Where to start?

For one thing, while I was having my protracted adolescence, my Old People finished raising their families, brought their professional lives to a close, and began to enjoy their retirement. This, of course, required significant advance planning. Most adolescents don’t plan too well, and neither did I. My husband tried to talk to me about things like savings and retirement but I didn’t listen very well. Do you know any teens who want to dwell on these topics? Me either.

Now as I watch the Old People take cruises and go south for the winter, I wonder how they do it. I’d love to go on a cruise. I’d like to remodel my kitchen, circa 1961, whose original cupboards boast a large brass medal: “Gold Medallion Home. Live Better Electrically.” At the end of the day, I thank God that I went back to school to become a counselor. As long as I can sit upright and nod my head, I can contribute to our upkeep. I don’t think I can afford to retire.

I realized, at some point, that my Old People were once Young Adults. I also realized some of them were much smarter and educated than I am. It took a few awkward and (unintentionally) patronizing conversations to set me straight. Linda can do just about anything on the computer, and she’d be the first person I’d call if I ever needed to program my VCR. (Is this a good time for me to confess that I do not know how to use my TV and have begun to stuff used tissues up my sleeves?) Despite a possible Reebok habit, Lyle is as sharp as a tack in all things financial. And don’t mess with my boy Sean. He may wear sweater vests, but it takes huevos to be a courier downtown.

My Old People include retired professors, retired accountants, and retired nurses, just to name a few. Even more impressive: many of my Old People have raised children who actually turned out to be very nice Adults. (Can you see how hard I’m working not to put the words “retired” and “Mom” in the same sentence? I think we all know Moms never retire.)

Bottom line: I think I could do a lot worse than joining the Old People. Besides–consider the alternative.

This is the seventh installment of The Story of Hanna (see also tab of the same name). For the sixth installment click here. For the eighth installment click here.