In the void left by loss, love steps in to fill to fill the heart with the realisation that growing older isn’t a fate to be feared, but an opportunity to be embraced
Is it just me, or is the print on medicine bottles smaller than it used to be?
My eldest will be 18 this year. I graduated with my undergraduate degree 27 years ago. I’ve been working for 23 years. I think that’s what you would call “officially old”. Friends who are 10 or more years older than me are narrowing their eyes right now and thinking, “Just you wait”. I know this. But the fact is, I’m at a crazy age, and I don’t really feel grown up yet.
My late sister and I used to scoff at older people. Before motherhood hit us right between the eyes, we were party animals. One of our favourite refrains was that we’d know we’d passed our sell-by date when we declared with zero irony, “Oh, that’s a lovely cardie you have on there!” Life was for partying, living life to the full, never slowing down, and never, ever getting old.
We scorned getting old. It was unthinkable. How dull, to have to wear sensible shoes, watch as body parts sagged, and no longer be able to stay out dancing all night.
Now that she’s gone, I find myself delighting in getting older. This year, I’ll surpass the age she was when she died. Older than my older sister. That’s odd, but while the age I’m going to be is a little intimidating, I’ve made a choice to revel in it.
Here are three things I’ve chosen to love about getting older:
Accepting who I am
Kid 2 and I went clothes shopping a month or two ago. I tried this on and then that in front of her. She liked most of the outfits, while I’d simply stare unhappily at myself and see a body that’s changed way too much for my liking. It was after I’d tried on a bathing costume and I’d become particularly despondent that she coughed into her hand, declaring, “Hypocrite!”
She’d nailed it, of course. I’ve been reciting the “love your body” mantra to her ever since she could string a sentence together, and there I was, contradicting myself in front of her by agonising over my old, squishy bits. I bought the costume right there and we’ve had brilliant times in it this summer, swimming, soaking up the Cape Town sun, and not once worrying over whether my bits are too big or too squishy.
Accepting help
My eyes aren’t what they used to be. I seem to need longer and longer arms to read small print (which increasingly turns out to be Everything). About a year ago, I had my eyes tested, because reading was becoming a chore. I now rock a pair of glasses that really aren’t terribly flattering, but that suddenly re-opened the world of reading to me.
There are things out there that make life a little easier. Like glasses, and yes, a lovely cardie on a chilly night. I’m learning to embrace them.
Watching from the sidelines
One of my greatest pleasures about getting older is watching my kids grow. Kid 1 towers over me and is in his final year of high school. Kid 2 is a raging feminist and such a hard worker that she often puts me to shame. Kid 3 is turning into a prodigious reader and gets more handsome every day. My sister’s daughter turns 15 this year and has become a gentle, creative soul. I get to watch all this and sometimes, to offer the wisdom I’ve picked up from the many more years I have on them. True, it’s often disregarded, but occasionally, it goes in. Watching it being applied is an honour.
“Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.” My sister doesn’t get to do this. I get to grow old in her absence. I’m going to make sure I appreciate the hell out of every minute.
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