SIGNS OF OUR TIMES
A Widow Bit – Feb. 21, 2010
By Mary Koch

            At what stage of life do symbols of age become dreaded instead of eagerly anticipated?

             At one end of our lives, we exult as we acquire various icons of maturity. For me it was the first tube of lipstick, nylon stockings and high heels. A little later came the turning point of my young life, the ultimate declaration of independence: a driver’s license.

            Paradoxically, I came of age in an era when youth was discovering its innate power, chanting the slogan of those times: “Trust no one over 30.” As if we would never turn 30.

            “I will never have any more fun,” I moaned to an older friend on my 30th birthday. He laughed.

            I discovered the 30s are a good decade. Still young, but not too young. Confident of our maturity, we no longer rely on symbols to prove that we’re grown up. It’s a comfortable decade. No wonder Jack Benny wanted to be 39 all the rest of his life.

            A musician friend recently reached what he called the “final birthday” of his 30s. He was on tour with his wife, who brought him a special breakfast treat from the hotel dining room – a bran muffin with a candle in it. She claimed there were no other choices, but he was clearly viewing the bran muffin as an omen of the future.  Is that when the worm turns? Do we begin worrying about symbols of aging when we find ourselves adding Metamucil to our shopping list?

            Guilty as charged. My recent colonoscopy went relatively well, but the doctor advised using a nutritional supplement to get more fiber. I was chagrined. I eat only whole grain breads and cereals, chew on kale and broccoli. I figure that should be enough. I don’t want to take Metamucil. That’s what my mother did. In her old age!

            OK, so I could do worse than follow my mother’s example. She moved seamlessly through those symbols of aging. On her own, she decided when it was time to give up driving. It was painful for her, but no one had to talk her into it.

            When the need arrived, she resisted another symbol of aging, a walker. Once she tried it, however, she realized the walker gave her the freedom to move around securely. She became an evangelist.

            “You should be using a walker!” she’d preach to neighbors in her retirement community.

            I was citing Mother’s experience to an older friend who had lost her balance and fallen one recent evening. No broken bones, thank God, but I worry about the possibility of another fall.

            “A walker is not a symbol of decline,” I urged. “It’s independence!”

            Yeah, right. Like a driver’s license. I wish we didn’t assign symbolic importance to mere stuff like driver’s licenses, cars, high heels, and yes, walkers. But try telling that to a 90-year-old. Or a 16-year-old. Or just try telling it to me.