Let’s talk about age, shall we? Not our biological age. No, not that. Let’s talk about the words used to talk about our/their stigma about getting older. Many of the words regarding aging are just rude and crude, but we mostly shrug them off. Maybe it’s time to push back when we’re feeling like we’ve just been disrespected.

“You look great for seventy-five.” Okay, that’s just insulting. Want to compliment someone on their appearance? Just say “you look great” and leave it at that. Better yet just tell them you like their blouse or the color of their sweater.

Then there’s the dreaded “at your age” caution. “You’re going skiing at your age?” Yes, because that’s what they enjoy doing and they don’t need anyone’s approval. If you’re really worried about them, just tell them to be careful and have a good time, while omitting the age factor.

Know someone in their 70s who dresses like they are in their 40s? Leave them alone. They’re happy wearing short skirts or tight tees. Why not let them enjoy wearing that fashion while they still can instead of telling them they’re too old for that look.

If you want to get into the nitty-gritty of semantics, we should think about the term elderly. Even if you’re on the leading edge of boomerdom, you don’t want to be called elderly. Even senior is better than that, and older adult is okay.

All of us experience memory lapses in which we are unable to retrieve the name of a singer or the vacation spot from 5 years ago. We have a lot of stuff stored in our gray matter, so it should not come as a surprise that it can be difficult to access all those facts. When it happens to someone you know, rather than remind them it’s happening because they are old, it’s much kinder to admit that it happens to you as well. And more often than you’d like.

Jokes about old people? Not funny if you feel like you’re the butt of the joke or you’re the one doing the joking. Getting old is still a lot better than the alternative of not experiencing aging at all – because (sorry to be harsh) you’re dead.

Think about some of these common slights the next time you’re with anyone older than yourself. The day may soon come when you’re the target of someone’s misguided assumption that you’re just too old to walk, talk and chew gum. And that kind of mistreatment gets old.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

Outage, as in “We’ll soon be out of yogurt if the power doesn’t come back on. And skinless chicken breasts, ground turkey, mayonnaise, and wild pacific king salmon direct from Alaska.”

Outage? No, outrage that at our age we still have to deal with life’s annoyances, little ones and omg those telephone trees!

Outage: at our age, I spy shortages in collagen, bone mass, heart beats, insulin, t-cells, and just ordinary plumpness and rosiness, in non-drooping apple cheeks. We’ve lost touch with bosom buddies, myriad secretions we now understand the purpose of, and our own waist. Parts are sagging beyond the power of any contrivance to remedy. Weary, we fail to find our balance in a world more alien by the hour, cell phones, keys, and masks notwithstanding. Are we even speaking the same language as those around us, the kids with their memes, tropes, and “random” sprinkled like sugar over our morning cereal? Do they even guess what words can convey?

How we long to join the conversation but lack the necessary vocabulary and swiftness of expression. Our thumbs don’t come equipped lie theirs with sharpened cone-like tips that trip nimbly over keyboards to produce perfect little texts.

A constant see in this brave new world of ours that has to be acknowledged: LOSS. I won’t elaborate but it’s where outage invariably leads…

Can we not pronounce this word, for a bit pretend and rejoice in plentitude? Chubby-cheeked red tomatoes sprouting in our garden patch, black-eyed susans bullying our delicate honeysuckle bush, fat bees flying overhead, drinking deeply, almost colliding with shy hummingbirds? Even green fungus reminding us they’re thriving?

So don’t talk to me of outages. Hey, why is there no outage of virus, the only outage we’d enthusiastically endorse? C’mon, you owe us that much.

Janet Garber is a little outraged about the outage

In a recent BuzzFeed post, people shared their “Oh no, I’m old” moments and the results, as you would expect, were very hilarious/revealing/depressing. The worst one was the 42-year-old man who broke his hip in his sleep. Then he broke it again while doing the PT to heal and had to get  hip replacement surgery. If you’re age 70 and over, allow me to remind you he is only 42.

My age realization is when you are filling out personal information online and get to the drop-down menu for the year you were born. Watching the years fly by as you scroll ever deeper down in order to reach your birth year is discouraging.

Another 42-year-old stated that he knew he was old when he watched a music award show and had no idea who any of the nominees were. Dua Lipa had him stumped but I’ve seen photos of her on Instagram and I would say if you’ve seen only one photo of her in concert, you would not forget the name.

One poster vividly remembered Y2K. Then he realized that the year 2000 was closer to the year 1979 than 2023. I remember that many normally intelligent people thought the world as we knew it was going to end. Not.

Someone posted that he AND his father have noticed that they recognize more of the celebrities who died than the ones currently on the red carpet.

Then there was someone who admitted that they had a long and interesting conversation with someone in the grocery store – about mops. Probably not embarrassed about it either.

An obstetric nurse realized she helped to deliver one of her co-workers. That’s almost as bad as overhearing the person in line in front of you give their birthdate as 2006.

One contributor shared that he has thrown out his back getting something out of the refrigerator. And emptying the dishwasher. And sneezing. And removing the dog’s leash.

The topper would have to be the poster who said he went to his high school reunion and was gobsmacked that there were a whole bunch of old people there.

That’s a feeling that any of us can get when we’re in an airport gate waiting area or a doctors office waiting room. Guess we better get used to it and maybe take a long look in the mirror.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

A few weeks ago, I got wind of an art exhibition for veterans in my county. I debated whether to apply, partly because I’m not sure critics would view my stuff as “real art.” Anyway, I did apply for the exhibit, which is in May. They accepted me, but then I was miserable for a month worrying and fretting about how others might react to my embellished wood scraps.

I tried to tell myself, do the thing that scares you and all that, but life is already pretty scary, and I don’t need to pile it on. It’s not a popular sentiment, but these days I’m all about making things easier. I fought the good fight and made it to retirement. I used to think big deal. Now, I think, hell yeah, big deal.

Retirement, they say, comes in phases. I’m in the easygoing phase and am doing my best to bypass the harder-than-it has-to-be-phase.

Although I rarely quit anything, I mean, do it until it hurts, I withdrew from the exhibit and feel great about the decision. Art is just a thing I do, no more, no less. I enjoy sharing it with you, but I don’t need to beat the streets seeking new audiences.

 

 

Number 36

I was working on Number 36 whilst churning through all this, and I was so grumpy, trying to make it better. Normally, my mantra, is hey, it was just a piece of scrap wood, now it’s something else. So what if it’s not perfect? But thinking about judges and shit messed me up. I simply need to hang out in my garage and do what speaks to me.

So, number 36. What can I say? I love cats.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

 

 

Sixty-nine years old is a line of demarcation for me. In 1999, my mother, a widow, was sixty-nine years old when she eloped and moved from Western Massachusetts to Cape Cod with her new husband Ted, himself a widower. A new life with this new start.

My mother began her day, at dawn, with a 1.4 mile walk from her house on Paddocks Path to the Sesuit Harbor Café where she sat and watched the boats in the harbor before returning to her home. Then she showered and dressed and…

“Erline, Volunteer” Read the badge on the ID lanyard she wore around her neck, most weekdays, at the Dennis Senior Center. “I help serve lunch to the old people,” she told me when she spoke of this job she began very soon after she had moved. Continuing to volunteer all through her 70s and 80s, though her clients were elderly, she never grew old.

On the cul-de-sac that formed their neighborhood, there were only three houses, including theirs. In the other homes were: John and June. Michael and Ellie. “Your mother fits right in,”Ellie told me when I joined them at one of their dinner parties. “It’s like she’s always lived here.” At the Our Lady-The Cape Thrift Shop, Mom donated many items that she found in the large barn attached to her house. On weekends, bringing coffee and sandwiches, she’d sit and visit with the church volunteers who worked in the store.

“I had at least ten, fifteen good years,” she said when, years later, we spoke of that time.

When I think of how my mother, at sixty-nine, was still young enough, vital enough, healthy enough to not only embark on a new adventure, but to flourish, it spurs me on. Yet didn’t I return to school, and being older than all of my professors, earn a Masters in English at the age of fifty-two? And didn’t I, after my retirement, begin, at the age of sixty-two, an intense study of French, with, again, all of my teachers being younger than me? Je parle Français maintenant. Perhaps…like mother, like daughter…

In November, for almost two weeks, my husband and I will be in Old Québec City, where, I will speak only French. And, during that time, I will celebrate my birthday, mon anniversaire. I will be turning sixty-nine years old.

Barbara A. Rouillard is a retired special education teacher and is currently at work on a book-length memoir entitled I Laugh Because I Do Not Want to Cry.