Aging awkwardly
A country-western song twangs from the speakers in the dance hall. The calico curtains shiver in the breeze. My friends and I flap our arms like chickens and hop from one leg to the other. We skip, holler, and laugh. Endorphins course, warming my body and illuminating my spirit. While I enjoy partner dancing, I love goofing off on the dance floor even more. We are decidedly uncool.
The oft-lauded concept of “aging gracefully” irks me. I aspire to savor aging with all its awkwardness, unhipness, and even the aches and pains. What I love about getting old is that vanity and self-consciousness are mostly a thing of the past. Luckily for me, many of my friends are over 60, and they, too, no longer care about how they appear to others. Freed from scrutiny, we can play uninhibited.
I do care, however, about how people respond to my attempts at humor. I wish people thought I was as funny as I believe I am. My jokes usually elicit a blank look or a wince but rarely a laugh. My sisters get it most of the time. Although they have said more than once, “You have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy.”
I take offense at that; I don’t make fart jokes or poop jokes. In truth, I have the humor of a fourteen-year-old girl. I tease when people are overly serious or flustered. I want to fluff them up so they can levitate out of their solemnity.
Sometimes, I wish I could keep my mouth shut, but when tickled, I spew jests like water from a burst pipe. The pressure builds up, and I feel I must let it out before I self-destruct. I often immediately regret saying whatever I thought was essential and funny one second prior. Although, I must confess that I revisit the joke later when I’m alone and have a delicious private chuckle or two.
A few years ago, when I went to the vet to pick up the ashes of my beloved cat, the receptionist brought out the little cedar box and said somberly, like a funeral director, “I am so sorry for your loss,” then handed the urn to me. Her gravity tripped my levity. And before I could stop myself, I looked at the box and said, “What happened to her? I brought her in alive, and you return her to me like this?!” Silence. The receptionist looked like a hiker lost in the woods. I could not machete my way out of that thicket. So, I shut my mouth and took my cedar box to the car. In retrospect, I see the inappropriateness of my remark.
The problem is that I confuse impulsivity with spontaneity. The latter is lovely and joyful, like silly dancing with my friends. But impulsivity, like projectile vomiting, is messy and revolting to clean up after. I’d hoped to age out of this tendency, but no such luck. My twisted humor mars my life-long desire to do everything just right.
All of my life, I have yearned for perfection. Even the average (non-impulsive) person cannot attain perfection, but they might get close from time to time. With my tendency to blurt, I could more easily free-climb the face of Half-Dome in Yosemite than achieve anything near perfection.
Like not caring how I dance, I hope to get the point of thinking, “So what if I’m obtuse? Why do I, a senior citizen with gray hair and melting body parts, care what people think of me? Now that I am no longer sexy or relevant, self-consciousness is out. Unintelligibility and foolishness are in! Hurray for the absurd!”
Another positive of aging, besides letting go of self-consciousness, is that I have aged out of the tyranny of a society that bases women’s worth on youthful beauty. At first, it hurt when people looked right through me.
Recently, however, I thought, “Maybe I should take up shoplifting.” Because once my looks (such as they were) faded with age, I became invisible.
When I take my purchases to the counter in a store, the salesperson does not look up from their smartphone. If a young person approaches, the clerk immediately stashes their phone and steps up to the cash register to help. At first, this infuriated me. Then, I realized that I could use my invisibility cloak to my advantage. Flying under the radar, I could explore the power of my irrelevance.
I sensed some opportunities here for a whole lot of fun. I could dress like a four-year-old, wear a plaid shirt with polka-dotted pants, and flaunt my uncombed hair. Nobody would dare say anything to my face except my friends. “Looking great today, Eggers!” they would say, appreciating this small rebellion.
I could burp in public. Oh, I already do that. I could . . . actually, I cannot help but fart in public. It seems I don’t have control of that bodily function anymore. What do I have to lose?
Sure, my jokes are obtuse, my clothes don’t match, I pass gas at inopportune moments, and I look ridiculous on the dance floor. Why should I care? Since I’m old and irrelevant, I’ll do as I please.