I made the mistake of cheerfully exclaiming to my mother that “growing old is a state of mind” and that “people in their seventies are running marathons”, until she helpfully pointed out that if my vaping and wheezing down the phone is anything to go by, I’d be lucky to walk the length of myself at 40.
Incidentally, I once read somewhere that womanhood is understanding your mother and it made me grateful that I have four sons, because only someone with a lot of letters after their name should venture to make sense of my mind, and I wouldn’t wish that dilemma on anyone.
Of course, when I was a child, being even one day older than someone else was a badge of honour, instantly granting you seniority and the mystical right to dictate playground rules and even bless food that had fallen on the ground, therefore rendering it once again edible.
It didn’t matter if you were hopeless at football or your skipping skills were a disgrace to the community: by virtue of those precious extra hours on Earth, you were the undisputed gamemaster and everyone else had to defer, lest chaos reign.
Funny how those days have vanished, along with my ability to touch my toes without assistance, and now, to be old is to be viewed by your kids as an ‘oul windbag’.
I shan’t elaborate on whether that was a quote from my sons or myself, but the point of the matter is, I am getting old.
Some women say getting older is liberating because the expectations and pressures begin to slip away, leaving a refreshing sense of freedom to speak your mind and tell people where to stick it.
I, who was pretty liberated in the first place, simply feel cheated, as now I have knees that sound like a trad band tuning up at a fleadh and I often wake from sleeping on the wrong pillow feeling as though I need palliative care.
I remember, not so long ago (or perhaps two decades), when a freshly minted graduate Brónagh, armed with optimism and a clipboard, landed her first ‘proper’ job, co-ordinating a creative writing project for groups of over-sixties.
I’ll admit, in my youthful arrogance, I half expected to be gently shepherding along decrepit souls who’d need more help finding their teeth than writing their life stories.
Within five minutes, that illusion was demolished – these were not “old people”, but sages in disguise, sharper than many of my university pals, with tales and wisdom that demanded to be heard (and, frankly, written down before we lost them to the ether).
I was schooled in humility on day one, right after meeting Peggy, aged 82, who, when I innocently asked her secret for staying so lively, winked and declared, “Lots of sex, sweetheart!” That was the day I decided I wanted to be her when I grew up.
Back in the day, the elders were the keepers of all the best stories, the ones you leaned in close to hear at the fire, half-hoping for a ghost or a bit of scandal.
If we had a wee bit more of our ancestors’ sense, we’d treat our older ones like the legends they are, not as an afterthought at the back of the bus.
I’ll confess, my passionate support for giving the older generation their dues might say more about my own terror at the ticking clock than any sense of sainthood, and this may be me frantically digging the well in the knowledge that I’m soon to need a glass of water for my dentures.
But even if my motives are as self-serving as my Ma suspects, it’s a noble crusade.
After all, research shows that staying socially engaged –chatting, storytelling, or arguing over the remote – can help ward off dementia and keep those brain cogs well-oiled into old age.
Still, I’m haunted by the thought of morphing overnight from the woman who could hold a whole room captive with a yarn to being relegated to the droolers’ corner at weddings, where people nod politely at me while eyeing the dance floor.
So, here’s to raising a glass (and maybe an eyebrow, if the botox has worn off) to growing old disgracefully – because what’s the point in being the oldest in the class if we can’t tell everyone what to do and act ridiculous?