I’m having an ongoing friendly argument with my husband. He’s checking out his feet and legs now that it’s warmer weather and he’s wearing his shorts. He laments on the condition of parts of his aging form. I accuse him of saying “old” far too much in describing himself.
It’s getting old.
In my opinion, he’s a 69+ year old man who one might guess to be closer to 60….2.
Seeing his 70th birthday speeding towards him this year is a shocker, we’ll both agree. Eight years his junior, I’m not diggin’ the math that puts my seven-oh not all that far behind his.
However, I refuse to say he’s old, I’m old, we’re old. Hell no.
The old word brings to mind yellowing plastic containers that have seen too much UV light. Old as in a horse lead out to pasture. Old as in medieval. Old worn shoes and socks. Old house that creaks. Well, maybe the creaking can’t be denied.
Old roads. Oldies but goodies. Yuck. Old hat. Old records. Old is as old does. You’re as old as you feel. No one expects an old person to be sexy or sexual.
“Please, can we agree to the word older,” I beg. “Will you please stop saying we’re old?”
He laughs. If I hadn’t been enjoying one of his yummy vodka tonic’s he’s made with pineapple infused vodka, I would be irritated. But he’s making me laugh instead. I can’ t help myself. He loves to see me getting worked up when he brings up THE WORD.
Old has no room here. No closet space either. Not even a little cubby hole somewhere. Old rhymes with mold and cold. Don’t like those words either.
“It’s okay to say we’re old because we are.” he declares. I open my mouth to protest. “Do you think you’re middle aged?” he asks. “Middle age”, he continues, “is the age from our mid 30’s to about mid 50’s; 60 at the latest.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I almost scream. “People are living longer. 62 is the new middle ages; I mean 62 is only half way cooked, I mean, well, I’ll admit to being a senior citizen.” I feel myself struggling with those two words. Ten years ago I felt far away from being categorized as senior. I’m not near ready to fast forward to any old talk.
We’re both laughing at my word jams. And we both know I love my senior discounts at the car wash, movies, anywhere I can save 10%. I love a deal. But there’s no deal here to ever agreeing we’re old.
“I’ll agree to saying I’m old when I’m 85; no when I’m 81. Okay, when I’m 81 I’ll ease up on the word old. Not until then.” I tell him with a straight face and firm resolve in every fiber of my middle aged sexy being.
He’s smiling at me with that charming smile that seduced me ten years ago when we were so young. Third time marriage for both of us was the charm. When the idea that sharing the rest of my life with him seemed like a very long and happy road with so much to see and do and share.
He lowers his voice. “You will always be beautiful and sexy. You could never be anything but lovely in my eyes.” Smart man.
Those words will never get old.