It's October, my birthday month. I'm leaving my early seventies behind this year, and if the past five years have taught me anything, it’s that life is precious. I've learned that any person I know can have an unexpected "scare" after they turn 70—and, in days or weeks, disappear forever, their race run.
I usually look forward to transitions: independence at 21, marriage at 26, learning to sing opera at 30, going back to school at 40. Retirement? That transition excited me so much that I felt compelled to read my findings to a writing group week after week for the first eighteen months.
Without children of my own to hold up a mirror, I rarely notice myself or others as we age. In a photo from a recent alumni event, I recognized someone. "Wow," I said to a former classmate, "Jim hasn't changed a bit." She broke it to me: “That’s his grandson.”
Other people groan as the years pass. "I'm losing my youth," a fellow said to me last week, and he looked pained. He'd just turned 64. " Big deal!" I said. To me, he had every reason to smile.
As a single in my seventies, I've changed in one aspect: I've begun to pass on insider information. For example: rather than quickly dumping dating partners you're less than gaga about, it's better to hold on to anyone you even "sort of" like doing things with. You never know when the A team will lose a member. And that's when the B team starts to shine.
"If you even
minimally like a woman," I told a retired single man last week, "there's no need to marry her or
dismiss her. You'll need friends who are free for an afternoon or an evening. You can keep things light. Few of us want to relinquish our own homes for yours."
The same is true about
being friendly with everyone in your exercise classes. I don't know how many serious stumbles and falls I'd have had in these past few years if Carol had dropped out of balance class when the rest of the fifteen-plus members fell away. With just two of us and one trainer, we kept the class alive.
As for climate change? The longer days and summer heat challenged my body here in Florida. My much-loved outdoor walks grew fewer through June, and stopped altogether in July and August. Even trips to the beach left me enervated. I had to accept being worn out by 4 p.m. I'm delighted to welcome October. My walks and my evening activities are back.
So I admit it: I'm finally joining those who glance backward before they look ahead. It's been painful to part with people my age — important characters in the book of my life — who left this plane in their early seventies. I lost Skip, Ava, Kathy, and Charlie that way. Last month, when a doctor of mine raised what turned out to be a false alarm, I understood why some claim that the word "yet" now means you're eligible, too.
I thought a medical alarm would send me straight to my desk to finalize drafts of plays and stories. It didn't. While I waited two weeks for my test results, I lived completely under the direction of my five senses, as if I had to test them.
I noticed the Florida sky more often, its low, fluffy clouds giving way to unexpected pelting rain. I noticed the gentle voice of a neighbor who, though we only met a few months ago, called out, "Hey, Judy," as I passed him on my way to take out the trash.
I saw the benefit of "You're eligible, too" in how many people over the age of 75 become more affectionate and generous. My friend Rex, now 80, is as cheerful cooking fish and bok choy, breaking down Amazon boxes, or buying surprise theater tickets as he is eating ice cream at the beach. Maybe smelling the roses is a purpose in and of itself. "Holding hands?" a 50-something male shouted as he drove past us on our way home from the beach a while back. "That's nice."
My medical false alarm changed my opinion of the free-ranging geckos that live in this climate. For most of the year that I've lived here, I've cringed when they ran past my feet. They're everywhere: scurrying through the hedges in my architecturally stunning neighborhood, racing along the boardwalk, or peeking out from messy urban renewal. What I missed before was how these geckos are always on their way somewhere. They're not aimless. That alone makes life better, richer, and healthier. In the Jurassic period, they walked alongside dinosaurs before we humans existed. I guess it was pretty hot then, too. Yet here they are. If they could speak, they'd probably say, "Enjoy your day!"
