It feels so scary getting old
and this time it's not just because I'm worried about not being hot anymore
A few months ago, I wrote a piece as a way to come to terms with my fear of ageing. I wrote the essay in a single sitting, after the thoughts had been marinating for a while. I’m not sure how long the makings of a crisis had been assembling in my subconscious, but a full-blown meltdown was brought up by the realisation that I was no longer the youngest person at the party. I’ve written about my dating life at length, I’ve chronicled my failed attempts to get a job after graduation, and I’ve been open and vulnerable both in my writing and with the people close to me. And yet, I felt incredibly embarrassed and insecure pressing publish on a piece admitting I Miss Being the Youngest Person in the Room. It’s not that I didn’t want to admit that I was scared of ageing, I think that’s a pretty normal fear, I just felt like I was scared for all the wrong reasons. I was worried about what would happen when I was no longer the ingénue, no longer desired, when the grace period expired. Still, my downward spiral seemed to resonate. Once again, I was reminded that I was not the first person to feel that way. Women in their twenties (and beyond) everywhere are clinging on to their youth and struggling to come to terms with not knowing what to do. Its value is undeniable, sometimes it’s subtle, the added kindness, the lack of pressure that comes with easily impressive [at least for your age]. Other times, it’s overt, almost crass, the drinks on the house, the unwanted comments, the skirting around men thrice your age, trying not to bruise any egos.
Bodies Bodies Bodies
I’ve been forced to confront ageing this month. Not because I once again met a twenty-one-year-old at a party that filled me with jealousy, this time it was more intimate, familial. I could trace a straight line across generations: me, my mother, my grandmother. All under the same roof. My grandma’s back in the shape of a question mark. The pale skin that sags and easily bruises. The sun spots and veins like lightning on her calves. My mom’s sprinkle of grey hairs, she now tires more easily. I need to remind myself she’s almost sixty, though you probably couldn’t tell, her posture still impeccable, inherited from a previous life as a dancer, her unwillingness to stay still, I don’t have to wonder where I got that from. My mom has been living with my grandma for the past six months. I’ve seen it weigh on her, how my grandma’s complaints, her slower pace, her pains and aches contrast with the woman she once was. The grandma I remember growing up, running around the house, keeping tabs on the grandkids, making lunch and baking cakes and telling stories seems miles away. She used to stay with us for months at a time. We lived in a different state, then across an ocean, growing up. For three months of the year, I’d take up residence in the guest bedroom, tell me a story, I’d say every night before bed. I’d taken it upon myself to become the next keeper of the family lore.
Growing up is hard, but growing older is a privilege. To become wiser, to see the fruits of your labour, the kids turning into teenagers, then adults, then parents. To get more time. My mom and I had a fight over Christmas, not over me leaving my clothes strewn around the house or borrowing her hairbrush and not putting it back. This time, she said she’d be fine to live until eighty, and that was enough. I lost it. I had seen enough close friends lose their mothers, first when we were thirteen, then seventeen, then twenty-two. They didn’t get enough time, though I don’t know if you can ever get enough time. Every time I’d come back from a funeral, I’d crawl into my mother’s lap, allowing myself to come undone as I mourned what my friends had lost. I couldn’t bear to imagine their pain, I couldn’t think of my life without my mother in it. I’ve spoken to her about it. My grandma is ninety, and my mom also struggles to think of her life without her. It’s hard to lose someone you love, full stop. It’s hard when it happens slowly, to see them fading. You get glimpses of who they were, but after a lifetime together, I find myself becoming reacquainted. Some traits remain, stronger than ever. The stubbornness, the pathological need not to bother anyone or get in the way. Some things change, always incredibly polite, I now laugh at my grandma, who could out-cuss a sailor. She has trouble hearing, though that is momentarily suspended when a particularly juicy bit of gossip about the neighbours enters the conversation. A few years ago, I had to be driven away from her house sobbing. I had a bad feeling, for the first time, I thought that this was the last time I’d be seeing her. I come back once a year; a lot can change in that time. I’ve come back again and again, and I no longer get the growing anxiety and desperation as I count down the days until I have to leave.
Dealing with someone at that age comes with a different set of rules. Some things can’t be fixed, some things don’t matter anymore. It’s no longer about optimising, but about easing discomfort, maximising pleasure, holding on. My grandma never smoked, though if she asked now, I’d be the first to volunteer to run down to the gas station and fetch her a pack. How I spend my time with her has also changed. She doesn’t have as much energy anymore. It forces me to slow down; I fight physics and logic and time itself and try to hold on to moments for as long as possible. A few years ago, I was home alone with her, and throughout the night, I kept going to her room, watching her closely and holding my hand next to her nose and mouth, making sure she was breathing. I’ve never slept so poorly. I’ve become emotionally detached almost in a healthy way. I hold her hand often. I flip through photo albums. I massage her back and legs and swollen feet and offer an arm for stability. I go to doctor’s appointments and drag her out into the sun. I try to be present. I tell myself to remember. I’ve come to look at ageing with kinder eyes. My fear had been misplaced. I’m still scared, but it looks different now. I dread the day my parents will have to hold on to me for support, when I have to take them to doctors’ appointments, when they complain about pain or when their memory fails. But I also want all of those things. My parents say they don’t want to trouble me, but I want the trouble. I want to have enough time with them to need to deal with all the messy and ugly parts of getting older. There are aspects of growing older that excite me. I think of all the people who will mean so much to me whom I still haven’t met, the milestones I dream about, and the confidence that comes with experience. I’m still a little scared. Growing up is terrifying, growing old as well, but it’s better than the alternative.
Love that we both have Paris in our newsletters this month. I'm obsessed with these generational pictures!! Beautiful writing, Julia!