Geezering

memento mori

an old (but still very cute) couple

I’m pretty comfortable with aging. My husband is not. Because he feels young inside, he thinks he IS young. (Is this a guy thing? It seems like a guy thing…)

He revels in junk food, soda, and candy. It doesn’t thrill me, but he’s an adult with agency so he gets to choose. When he reminded me that his blood sugar was pre-diabetic at an earlier annual exam, I frowned. It’s his life, and I am committed to not nagging. (Not for his sake, but for mine.)

He still loves the things he enjoyed when he was a kid—pinball machines and ping pong and video games. (To be fair, so do I. Art, reading, going for walks. Huh. Maybe I was born old. That would explain a lot.)

He watches shows populated with young people. First love. Private schools. Teenage drama. Blech. It’s not that there aren’t exceptional productions featuring young people (there are—like Teenage Bounty Hunters and The Half of It), but as a general setting, not my favorite. I want to see stories about people like me. Preferably, not the kind that depict old people sick and dying (and a burden to a young person), but living their lives. Laughing. Doing stuff. Finding love. Because (surprise!) we are all still alive until we are actually dead.

There aren’t nearly enough of them. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Grace and Frankie. Quartet. Unfinished Song. Calendar Girls. The Farewell. Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris. Waking Ned Devine. (Extra credit for Irish old people.) Lately, I’m enamored with June Squibb. When he saw that I was watching Thelma, he screwed up his face and said: Nuh uh. I shrugged and contentedly followed Thelma on her quest by myself. (Spoiler: She prevails!)

He frequently points to other couples and asks: Are they older or younger than us? I usually reply: About the same. (I’m not great at assessing age, and they seem like they fit within the range of our elderliness.) He responds with a horrified: NO THEY’RE NOT. They’re not the same age as us. They are clearly much older.

I don’t know if they are or not. I didn’t ask them. But I do find his reaction hilarious.

Whenever he talks about someone being “so old,” I reply: Like us? (You think I’m a nice person, but you don’t live with me.)

Last night, we were watching Song Sung Blue and he realized that one of the supporting actors is Jim Belushi. And he was not happy. Jim looks weathered. (LIKE US.) After the ensuing and predictable discussion, he listed sideways on the couch and said: This is not a safe space.

He has an acronym for old folks and it’s “IOP.” Indistinguishable old person.

We’re in Hawaii. There are lots of old people. Retirees. They’re everywhere. He walks by the grounds of a hotel nearby (or any of the many beaches) eyeing the motionless bodies on lounge chairs and plays the game: Dead or sleeping? This makes him laugh. He even takes pictures.

I shake my head. He’s trying to find ways to cope with mortality. I know it’s hard.

When we’ve talked about what we want in regard to our remains, I have always said: Roast me. Scatter the ashes. Don’t embalm my body and have my sad skeleton take up space in a cemetery. (I am also an organ donor. Hopefully, there won’t be much of me left.) For years, he insisted he wanted to be cryogenically preserved to be revived in the future when whatever he died of would be cured. (He has since revised that opinion and now wants to be roasted, too. Which is good. I would never have visited him in the frozen head lab and it would have been a little creepy to know he was there. Well, part of him.)

Last night, we had a conversation about music. How the 80’s were 40 years ago. (Gulp.) And how in the 80’s, the 40’s were 40 years before THAT. The 1940’s. World War II. The Swing Era. Billie Holiday. Katherine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart. The 40’s seemed like forever ago in the 80’s. (Even the 50’s seemed like forever ago then… Remember how quaint Happy Days was?) But, he argued, the 80’s aren’t ancient history. Lots of people still like that music now. EVEN YOUNG PEOPLE. Classic Rock! So instead of a similar gap, apparently, we’re in some sort of time suspension situation. Where we are still cool. And young.

Well, maybe one of us is.

I think part of my acceptance of (my own) death (not that of my loved ones) stems from the fact that I didn’t think I’d live this long. My father died in his early 50’s. My mother, in her early 70’s which I’m approaching quickly. The genetic blueprint is not on my side.

But young people feel immortal. The end seems so far away. And with luck, it is. Maybe feeling that way leads to more fun. The Peter Pan archetype. (And he IS fun.)

In response to this essay, he wrote:

The reaper keeps texting me memes
Of all of his scythe-wielding schemes
But he can go suck it
I won't kick the bucket
Till I've lived out all of my dreams