A Fine Line: Middle Age and Old Age
The first time it happened, I nodded thanks and sat down, not giving it much of a thought. The second time, I said “thank you” with some hesitation. The third time, “Thank you” was not what came to mind. “F--k you,” was more like it.
I began peering into that room in my mid-fifties, when ticket-sellers and store clerks raised their eyebrows, looked sideways, and said, “would that be with the senior discount?” No, I insisted, not quite yet, and for a few years I coloured my hair. It didn’t help much, and gradually the incentives became irresistible. Seniors’ days at the bulk food store, cheap theatre tickets, a whopping ten percent off a new clothes dryer.
Then one day Zoomer, began arriving, unsolicited, in my mailbox - the monthly magazine for Canadian retirees featuring stories of fit 70-year-old hikers and bikers who look forty-seven. My university alumni magazine now lists more names for my class under the "deceased" heading than under "accomplishments"; most of us are apparently hovering somewhere in between and not worthy of mention. The latest issue sits on my coffee table, discreetly covering an invitation - also unsolicited - to prearrange my funeral as a final and lasting gift to my children. How, exactly, does one wrap such a gift? In foil, like a fine chocolate? Has Hallmark yet created the accompanying card? "To my daughter, on the occasion of my impending demise. . ."
Don’t rush me.
That’s what I said a few years ago, when one of my friends - a forward-looking woman with an eye to detail - hosted a gathering she called “death by chocolate". She served decadent chocolate desserts while the invited guests - all of whom had known each other for thirty years and counting - discussed how we would like to dispose of our bodies and how we would like our friends and families to mark the end of our lives. Between bouts of humour as dark as the chocolate, we collectively dipped our toes into the River Styx.
For corpse disposal, cremation took first place, though as a group of purported environmentalists, we grappled with the energy consumption involved. Cursory research suggests a single cremation is worth a couple of months of moderate energy consumption, though of course we’re not inclined to calculate the cost in advance, never knowing when the bill might come due. Several members of the group preferred burial in a cardboard coffin; let the worms do their thing, as nature intended. My own beloved’s choice - the funeral pyre - is sadly not permitted by local ordinance. As for a ceremonial event, preferences ranged from a hot-dog-roast to a traditional Protestant service.
I’m still in denial, still peering into that room from the outside, which is why I cursed silently as I took the proffered subway seat, casually ran my fingers through my thinning white locks, and assumed an insouciant air. No one noticed.
And that’s another reason to stay on this side of the threshold for as long as possible. I’d like to be noticed, not as an old lady in need of a seat, but as a person of worth, a person with a contribution to make, a person who can still choose which rooms to enter. The word from across the threshold is that those who enter receive a personal “disappearing cloak” and eventually become transparent shades, in preparation for their descent into the underworld. When they do venture back to this side, only the most perceptive can see them. After awhile, they stop returning.
I’m not in total denial, of course. Hovering on the brink of seventy, it’s hard to be. I know it would be wise to “prearrange” and take that responsibility away from my children – though in recognition of the inevitable, and given the choice, I suspect they would rather have me clean out the basement. And I know that young man on the subway was doing just what I’d have told my own children to do. But before I spend another day in the city, I’m going to practice saying, “Thanks, but I’d rather stand.”