In silent hot rebellion, we cry silently, “I have lived my life – haven’t I? What more is expected of me?” With a certain haughtiness, one realizes that we have reached the place beyond resignation, a place I had no idea existed until we arrived here.
It is now our most precious place, where we can endure the next phase of our life. A phase that will have a wealth of patience, a treasure of endurance, immeasurable courage and cheer, and kindness culled from the old laborious days. These are sure gifts worthy of returns.
Getting old is a natural thing and no one should be afraid of the natural. The trees age, as do the animals and everything that is alive. I am not afraid to look old. I don’t know indifference. I ignore bitterness. If something unpleasant happens to me, I put it behind.
Women in that certain age are in their oneness. Their hands brushed tears away — hands that were once held by and warmed husbands. Indomitably, they are widowed by men who couldn’t cry, couldn’t touch and died of heart attacks.
I never expected to be such a poor sport about aging, because I never expected to be old — or at least would accept aging — very badly. But I am not clutching it in high pitched sighs and smiles that tell of pain forgotten. In a fragile package are my age spots, menopause and arthritic hormones. Many times, during this examination of the woman of a certain age, and the world she lives in, I’ve asked myself, who cares?
The only reason that I’m adding words to this subject is to clear away what I consider to be a thicket of misconceptions, if not timidities. George Bernard Shaw said that it’s a pity, youth is wasted on the young.
This is untrue! Youth is wasted on the old if all they do is pine away to be young again. By embracing the loss of youth, I’ve transcended my anxieties and the dread of growing ancient.
I speak of growing old not gently, perhaps not even gracefully, but with a wonderful outrageous sense of style. I will wrap a scarf around my neck to hide a turkey’s neck, flutter my bosom with bold Swarovski beads that will blind an eagle’s gaze, and be swathed in glitz and glamor so I’ll be sweating glitters.
My voice will be lighter, and I will dress myself with Christian Dior, Valentino, and buttered with flowers in an Oscar de la Renta outfit.
I will defy the grave with bright colors and perfume (guaranteed to wake the dead and kill the living), tending time which is more fragile than youth.
Be unduly dignified, having earned the right to dress and sing and dance anyway you please. I could even take up belly dancing, and unlock all my inhibitions.
Our identities are not tied to our age. We’re never our own age, as we come to terms with aging, we create our identities in our own terms.
Now, I can demand the freedom to take life less seriously. I will flaunt my gray hair, wrinkles, double chin and falling wombs with the acceptance that beyond age, lies a gentler joy and peace that sanctifies old age. I shall stop reflecting on such things as the nature of melancholy, or how sickness could be caused by the state of mind. I shall transfer my affections to more attainable men and forego with men out of range like Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Henry V, and Clint Eastwood. At this point, I can throw away the books, along with self restraint. But in no time will I throw away a sense of fierce independence as a human being and the desire to attain distinction in terms of mind and spirit and expression, and its existing horizons. I am not going to be worried of what others think of me, or by what standard of morality I am judged, nor I will not stand the gaff or independence for long.
You want to be young? But you can’t be — older is what we all get.
We offer our flowers of humility when we have to question how much of the beloved is left for human purposes. See, just how good the human quality remains, as we make our world out of what life offered in tranquility.
But tranquility is not a grace waiting for us to take on as our right, but something we have to win with effort. It may not be our doing, but it is what facing age does to us.
Can we do less than give fealty to such victory?
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E-mail Mylah at [email protected]
