My friend who’s been dealing with heart problems and just had cancer surgery on her face approached me in church on Sunday. “You’ve heard that fifty is the new forty and sixty is the new fifty? Well, eighty is the new eighty.”
The man sitting next to her chuckled and moved his walker to one side. I laughed as I sat down—the pain in my hip was at that moment killing me.
“What did she say?” my man asked, his hand cupped behind his ear.
“She said it’s hell getting old.”
My man nodded, but I’m pretty sure he only heard half of what I said.
I remember thinking when I was in my forties that I wouldn’t really be old until I reached my eighties. There was no particular reasoning behind that thought. It was just a number that was a lifetime away. I guess I never thought the years would go by so quickly.
But here I am, hanging out with my buddies and talking about knee surgery, and pacemakers, and how easily our skin bruises.
I was playing mahjongg with friends last week when the subject turned to cataract surgery. That’s a particularly popular topic among many in my crowd.
“Dee had her cataracts removed and was shocked at how many wrinkles she and her friends had. Her face lift is amazing.”
We all agreed that the Sarasota eye center must do a booming business in Southwest Florida. My consultation is in July. I guess I’ll be meeting with a plastic surgeon in August.
There’s no sage advice I can pass on to the young folks, who I’m sure don’t think that age will ever catch up with them. Maybe actress Joan Collins, recently stunning on the red carpet at 92, said it best when she suggested that you have to try to look as good as you can no matter what your age.
And for my friend who commented about eighty being the new eighty, I shared the story of my man. Eighteen months ago, his health fell apart. Doctors treated his problem but also gave him powerful medicines that nearly killed him. He thought he was headed for hospice, but then clawed his way back and zipped off to London several weeks ago for a fun time on his own.
“He’s the comeback kid,” I told her. “We can all hope for that.”
Better to be eighty, then to not make it there and miss out on the fun of shooting for ninety.