Tables Turning

"I know what it is to be young.  

But you don't know what it is to be old...."

In an ancient recording I found online, a choir of young voices sings this song and the deep voice of Orson Welles speaks them. 

When talking to younger people, these lyrics are often the soundtrack running in my mind.  

On days when I'm feeling energetic, creative, socially engaged, and curious, I'm not particularly aware of age.  But most septuagenarians, octogenarians, nonagenarians, and centenarians are not always at the top of our games.  

Last week, I was having one of those days but intent on stocking up for the impending freeze, walking the aisles of HEB.  I wondered when I saw younger people how this woman (me) lacking even lipstick might look in their eyes.  Invisible, probably, but "old" for sure.  

When an adorable young man, with a brilliant smile,  approached to ask me if Luci was a Corgi, then showed me a picture of his own dog, he lingered to talk.  "She's so well behaved, so soft," he said up to me from his squat.  "Does she bark a lot?"

"Only at the postman who throws bombs through the mail slot," I said.

"You won the dog lottery!" he said.  "My dog barks all the time."  He didn't rush away, he actually wanted to talk longer. 

For hours after that surprising conversation, I felt better.    

When I was young, I wasn't like this young man.   Anyone over 50 was really old.   I barely noticed them.  They all looked--I'm sad to say--pretty much the same to me. 

That has changed.  I love observing people my age and older. Some have radiant faces, smooth skin, easy smiles.  Some faces are etched with boredom or anger or pain or loneliness.  A few--like me on good days--seem to be having a good old day at the store.  I try to meet the eyes of all people as I walk down the aisles, but am now more attracted to the faces of those in my generation and my parents'.  

When you're young, you may not know you're beautiful or brilliant or funny.  You're so cued in to what others say you are.  Now more than ever, with social media, kids get moment-by-moment assessments from their peers. 

Last week, the day before Elena's 13th birthday, she sprained her ankle in fitness class. When I picked her up from school on her birthday, we stopped for boba tea.  This time it was she who sat and waited while I delivered the tea to the table. 

"Until you hurt yourself, you take it all for granted," she said.  "Walking, running, jumping--it's all so easy." 

Throughout life, it's like that, I told her.  Until you find yourself on crutches, or limping along, or dealing with some pain or injury, you don't realize what you've taken for granted.  

She laid her sweet hands on the table and told me that her fingers were not pretty.   Some were crooked.  Some nails were weird.  To my eyes, they were perfect.  

I laid my red puffy hands beside hers and told her that my hands looked very much like her hands once upon a time, skin smooth, nails polished.  

I could have said more but didn't want to be a party pooper.  Anyway, when you're young you don't truly believe much of what is said by people who're very old.  You have forever.  You'll beat the odds.  You'll be different.