Living a long life should have more rewards

I will soon be 89 years old. So then I will be in my 90th year. Some friends have asked how it feels to be almost 90. That’s a hard one to answer. I usually don’t even do it. I just smile. Although it is definitely not something to smile about.

How does it feel to be almost 90?

Don’t worry. I won’t actually catalogue it. People hate that. And I hate it when others do it. But I often have to force myself not to do it. I want to tell the world how I hurt, how I hurt almost every minute. And I want to tell them I don’t think it’s fair. (Well, it isn’t.) Actually, there should be a reward for living such a long time, not a series of punishments.

I pray I won’t die of cancer the way my mother did. I pray I will just go to sleep some night and not wake up. Although, like St. Augustine when he asked God for chastity but “not yet.” I tell God “not for a while.” Not until I have had more days of living in the house I love, with the son I love, our dog, and the sun and my memories.

If you asked me what I hate most about being old, I couldn’t even answer. There are so many things. And so few that I like. Well, I do like how few things seem important to me now. I like what I think of as my new wisdom. And I like my memories. Well, some of them. Maybe most of them. I’m not sure about that, though.

Have you ever heard someone say they feel betrayed by age? Because I do. I definitely do. When you’re younger, there are things you can do to look pretty, to have a better figure, to honestly like yourself.

Then you are old and you have nothing to say about anything. Nothing. For example, you have all those awful wrinkles. And don’t talk to me about the wonders of some ridiculously expensive moisturizer. Those wrinkles are there for good – and they intend to stay there. And there’s that damn bunch of fat just below where your waist used to be. You’re fairly thin all over, so what is that fat doing there? I think of it as blubber. Someone told me it’s there because I’ve shrunk 2 1/2 inches. Explain that to me, please. It slid down there? It went from the top of my head down there? I’d like to know what idiot first came up with that imbecilic idea.

Another thing about old age. Why are women – who are supposed to look smooth and feminine – doomed to have hair on their faces as they age. What’s the point of that?

I sometimes think I have spent more time waxing and plucking than I have exercising. But maybe that’s a bad example. My 35-year-old doctor solemnly told me to exercise at least 15 minutes a day. I didn’t say anything, but I wanted to tell him it takes me 15 minutes to put on each shoe in the morning. Or more.

I’ve decided what happens when you are old is that your whole body – every bit of it – is ready to give up the ship. And you don’t have anything to say about it. Every few weeks brings a new surprise. And not – let me assure you – a pleasant one. Here’s an example. My body now has more little bumps on it than inches of original bare skin. Sometimes – when I can’t sleep – I explore them. They’re not sore. They’re not large. But they’re everywhere.

I asked my dermatologist what caused this, and he said no one knew. He said the present theory was that old peoples’ immune systems start to shut down and this makes it easy for the bumps to arrive.

I like him a lot or else I would have told him I’ve never heard such a ridiculous idea in my life. I wanted to ask him, “Well, then, where were these bumps before they arrived?” But it would have been futile. He’s nice but not that nice.

Thank God, though, these bumps didn’t arrive during the years I wanted to be attractive to men. Seductive nightgown or not, I would have been rejected before the night was over. Let’s face it. Men are shallow. I mean look at all the flaws men have and we’re supposed to pretend we don’t even notice. And then we think we finally have equality,

My husband always wanted me to be thin. Thin, thin and thinner. In spite of the fact, that – I swear – he gained five pounds every year. He got shorter and shorter and fatter and fatter. Eventually, he looked like a pregnant woman five months along and one wondered if he were going to topple over any minute. But, of course, it wasn’t up for discussion. Once I said every person in our family was overweight and he was outraged.

Didn’t he ever look in the mirror? The truth of the matter is I was the only one who wasn’t overweight but I knew better than to imply that.

Let me tell you the most puzzling thing about this age. It’s the way pains dart around one’s body. Everywhere and at any time.

. Of course, you usually ask yourself what causes these pains. You know better by now than to call the doctor and ask him. Usually, you decide the pains are just the inevitable results of old age. And, once again, you decide there is definitely something wrong with the whole system.

Maybe that’s why I’m an agnostic. I not only don’t know the answers to all the eternal questions, but I don’t know why we can’t go from youth to middle age and then just stay there. I can’t help but feel a female God would have created a much better world, but it’s one of those things you don’t talk about. At least, not where there are any males present.

Well, I give up. I’m an old, old woman and I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

With aches, pains, disillusionments, bumps, insomnia and too much saliva.

Call me reconciled if you wish, but I’m really not. And I’m almost positive I never will be.