Let this serve as a warning to those of you who are going
along complacently, believing this dance lasts forever. You think you’re in the prime of life and
suddenly, you look in the mirror one day and you don’t see yourself; you see
your father or, if you are a female, your mother in there. And then, without much more passage of
years, that face turns into the grandparent that you maybe lost when you were
just a kid.
Oh, there are some warning signals, like those aching joints
and the need for a little nap just to “catch up on that sleep you lost last
night.” Sometimes you anticipate what
used to be your favorite activity, and suddenly, it doesn’t seem so great
anymore. Sadly, some of your best
friends and relatives move away, or worse, die, and leave you to mourn their
passing.
It doesn’t always happen the way I described. For instance, I think I first noticed that I
had morphed into my father when I moved to Texas in 2003 and had to get my
drivers license reissued. The picture
of that guy on the new one just couldn’t be me. He had too many wrinkles and a prominent cord down each side of
the throat that looked like a bulging artery.
That person was at least 10- or 20-years older than I was.
Then, one day when I was shaving, I looked in the mirror and
there was my long dead father staring back at me. I thought that it probably was to be expected, though I never
realized the close resemblance when I was younger. I decided that I’d have to
accept the inevitable, that I really had reached that age where I couldn’t
refer to myself as “middle aged” anymore.
And finally, a couple of years ago I saw a person looking
back at me from that mirror that I no longer recognized at all. He was, to use the well-worn term, “older
than dirt.” I don’t know what my
grandfather looked like, since he died before I was born, and the pictures from
those days were those sepia tone, antique ones that made everybody look pretty
much the same anyway. But I suspect
that he probably looked like I do now.
Those years do have a way of sneaking up on you and there
isn’t any gradual change. It just
happens one day and there’s no turning back.
(Well, plastic surgeons make their living off convincing you that there
is, but that’s another column)
In conclusion, and kind of as a footnote, have you ever
noticed that those pictures that accompany the obituaries of elderly people
don’t seem to match the age given at passing?
It’s probably a good idea to choose a photo/portrait you had
taken when you were in your middle to late 40s that can serve as your obit
picture when you go in your late 70s or early 80s. Go out with your good side showing.
Now, in case you took this seriously, and you think maybe
I’m getting senile, here is a little treat for you that will likely only be
recalled by those over 50, as will the pair that sings the song, “I’m My Own Grandpa.”
