Now don’t get me wrong. I think growing old is a beautiful thing. It means I’ve been blessed with many years of life and experience, it means I’m a survivor, it means I’ve endured whatever life has thrown at me, it means I’ve dodged a few bullets, and it generally means I’ve been very lucky. It also means I’ve reached a point where I no longer have to give a s*%t about a lot of things. It means I can sit at my computer half the day in my pajamas writing blog posts and not feel I owe anyone an explanation or apology. It means having the freedom to say what I really think and getting a pass from a lot of people because, you know, “She’s a little senile these days.”
Growing old, or as I like to call it growing up, also means I’ve had the inexpressible privilege of meeting the adults who have grown from the children I raised and knowing what beautiful people they are. It means I’ve had the greatest of all life’s gifts: meeting my children’s children, being part of their lives, and holding the exalted title of “Mimi.”
Now with all of that having been said, let’s talk about the other parts of getting old. I have now reached that “certain age” at which it’s no longer possible to pass as just one of the people in the group. I’m now the old person in the group. I recall being a very young teacher and asking my students about a folk hero of my youth, Davy Crockett. I said, “You know Davy Crockett . . .” As I continued setting up the brilliant point I was about to make, I saw a roomful of blank stares. I was shaken. Come on! Everyone in the world has heard of Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier! Then the startling realization washed over me: I am so much older than these people (only about ten years at that time) that we have not shared the same cultural experiences.
That was a pivotal moment. As time went on, I realized it was actually possible for someone to be old enough to be a college student without having been alive when President Kennedy was assassinated. They knew only what they had read in their history books, whereas I still remember where I was and how I heard the news on November 22, 1963. Then there was the time when I was teaching Martin Luther King’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” to a college class. I was discussing the section where Dr. King talks about the Jim Crow era racial signs, all of which I saw when they were hanging and being enforced. One student excitedly waved his hand and announced, “Oh, oh, oh, I saw some of those once in a museum!” Just shut-up.
Okay, I’ve sort of come to terms with all of those things. Being older than a lot of people just means I have wisdom and perspective, right? These are good things, right?
But then there are a few other reminders of aging which I am still struggling with. Except when I look in the mirror, I feel like the same person I was at 18 or 20, mostly. Then things happen, like a couple of interactions this week.
During a phone conversation with a young man (I never met him in person, but these days everyone is young) from my bank, I mentioned that I could handle the thing we were discussing through the online banking site. Pleasantly surprised, the nice young man responded, “Oh, great. Yes, you can do that. Most of our senior citizens are not that familiar with technology.” WHAT did you just call me? Did you call me a senior citizen? Several more times in the course of the next few minutes, he again called me a senior citizen, in each case making comparisons that were favorable to me. But senior citizen? I know you have my age right there in front of you and that I am forced to repeat it each time we begin a conversation to confirm my identity, but how dare you call me a senior citizen?
Then just yesterday I reported for my first day of volunteer duty for the Florida Democratic Party, and I met two lovely young men—who couldn’t possibly be old enough to vote—who represent the state party and who gave me my instructions. As I was preparing to return to my car and drive to my assigned spot, one of our Florida afternoon monsoons began. Real Floridians take these things in stride, knowing they’ll pass within a short time. However, I didn’t want to get soaked, especially since I’d just done my hair; and all four of my umbrellas were in the car. Brilliant. I know! So I asked if there were an umbrella I could borrow to retrieve my own and then return the borrowed one. There wasn’t, but one of the nice young men leapt to his feet and offered to retrieve mine from my car for me. I hesitated (very briefly), so he said, “Oh, it’s no problem at all! We’re young!” Dammit, they noticed that I’m not young! My pride wanted to say, “I can do it myself! I’m just as spry as you are, you little smart ass!” But my hair said, “Oh, thank you soooooo much!”
But back to the subject of what to call people of that certain age, we have to do better than senior citizen! I know, I know, this was the politically correct term that replaced old fart, old codger, etc. But seriously? Could it be any more generic? It sounds like day-old bread, things past their expiration date, the class next in line to graduate.
I’d rather be called an old broad. Yes, that is indelicate and doesn’t sound very flattering and is certainly not something you want to teach your children to call older folks. But it has per-son-al-i-ty! It suggests this is not just someone who’s advanced to the last stage before the big chill. This is someone who has lived and is still living: someone who might actually surprise some young folks with her stories.
Or how about an old biddy? I know, these keep departing further from the line of non-discriminatory language and would not have been approved in the lecture my young self gave on that subject, but this one too has some spunk. “Biddy,” according to my trusty online dictionary, means “a woman, usually an elderly one, regarded as annoying or interfering.” Yes! This lady is no milk toast, hair-in-a-bun, sweetly smiling, softly speaking pushover. This is a real woman, not afraid to use her years and authority to push other people around. She has guts, gumption! She is not a generic out-of-date article relegated to the back of the shelf.
Old bag and old bat fit the same description as old biddy: women of spunk and boldness, not afraid to throw their weight around with those foolish enough to mess with them. They have authority, and they’re not afraid to use it!
“Crone” is an interesting word, defined as “a withered witch-like old woman.” Now bear with me on this one. Don’t just reject it without giving it a fair hearing. I know the “witch-like” part is a little off putting, but think about it. A witch is someone with power, magical power. She, too, is no milk-toast, cookie-baking grandma. She has character! She’s interesting! And she’s a little intimidating, just enough to keep those young know-it-alls in line.
Years ago, when the professor-rating websites began, the first rating I ever received ended with the words “She’s a classy dame.” Yeah! You can keep your senior citizen; I’ll take “classy dame”! Back to the ole online dictionary, a dame is defined as an official title of certain women of royalty; also, “(formerly) a form of address to any woman of rank or authority; a matronly woman of advanced age; matron.” This description evokes images of a well-heeled, well-coifed, elegant woman in full command of herself and her life; and she’s probably also in command of all those young people around her, so smug about their limber, cellulite-free bodies! Yes, I want to be a dame!
One of my all-time favorite movies is Fried Green Tomatoes, and one of my all-time favorite movie scenes is one from this film in which Kathy Bates’s character has been driving around a crowded parking lot for ten minutes or more and finally spots someone leaving their parking space. Elated, Evelyn (Kathy Bates) starts to pull into the space when a small car carrying two young women zips into it ahead of her. The girls exit their car and giddily brush off Evelyn’s rage with “Face it, lady! We’re just younger and faster!” Irate at their impudence, Evelyn pauses for a moment, then backs up, gleefully shouts “Towanda!” and rams the girls’ car. Intoxicated with her freedom and power, she backs up again and again and rams the car five more times. When the girls hear the crash and return in disbelief, Evelyn smugly announces, “Face it, girls! I’m older and have more insurance!” Towanda is my hero!
When reporting her rampage to her friend Mrs. Threadgoode at the nursing home, Evelyn says:
I never get mad, Mrs. Threadgoode. Never. The way I was raised it was bad manners. Well, I got mad and it felt terrific. I felt like I could beat the shit out of all those punks. Excuse my language; just beat them to a pulp. Beat them until they begged for mercy. Towanda, the Avenger! And after I wipe out all the punks of this world I’ll take on the wife beaters, like Frank Bennett, and machine gun their genitals. Towanda on the rampage! I’ll put tiny little bombs in Penthouse and Playboy, so they’ll explode when you open them. And I’ll ban all fashion models who weigh less than 130 pounds. I’ll give half the military budget to people over 65 and declare wrinkles sexually desirable. Towanda: Righter of Wrongs, Queen Beyond Compare!
Now there’s a dame! There’s a woman I can respect. No one’s going to call Towanda a senior citizen. She has personality; she has character! She’s going to make wrinkles sexually desirable. I’m with her! Queen beyond compare! Towanda rules!
In case you’ve never seen the parking lot scene, here’s the YouTube link: