Being a Pensioner

Lightly rubbing the skin on the back of my hands makes me want to weep. I have to accept this condition of being truly old now and it does not sit well with the 22 year old that lurks behind my eyes. No, I'm not ancient (depending who is looking) but I'm now in the class of being 'elderly'. Bah.

I could probably be fitter, carry less weight and I know I could certainly sit a lot less than I do… I know all this… but you can fool yourself, even perking up and pulling a pose for the mirror. ‘I’ll do’ you tell yourself. ‘I’ll pass’. Then just a look at the palm of that one hand… no idea why it looks so old in comparison with its mate, but it really does… and the back of both hands. No springy skin that just jumps back into place, but this wrinkled stuff. Yet to turn papery, I’m not ancient, no, but definitely loose and not at all springy. Let’s not even mention the neck, the décolletage. The knees!

I’m not quite a bag of wrinkles, but a blind man can see the direction it’s all going. I’ve long embraced the grey and even prefer it to any colour in my hair, but the jowls… I do object to the jowls. Gravity is a cruel master of your average face and although I have no intentions of any Botox treatment, nor would I contemplate plastic surgery, I can easily see why it is popular enough even among non-celebs.

The legs really only save me nowadays if hidden in a pair of tights. Those are my mum’s legs! When did that happen? The belly, well, it’s my own fault and too long been too prominent (literally). Not sure I ever had ‘abs’ but I do remember hip bones. And what the hell happened to my arse?! It just sort of… went. Up and left me, bereft. What the hell are these bits?! Honest, it was sudden.

I know it’s only going to get worse too, that’s the thing. I do understand, the alternative (being dead) isn’t what I strive for. But a wee bit… leniency? Perhaps a slowing down of the decay? That’d be nice. I don’t think I deny my age, it’s not that. I’m pretty sure I don’t do the ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ horrors. I also don’t want a bloody blue-rinse perm yet either! Or a wee car coat and a peeny with baffies, or a giant handbag (actually they’re popular, but no thanks). I’m happy being Grammy, but don’t want categorising too quickly on sight! I know that the likes of, say, Raquel Welsh and Jane Fonda do (have!) a lot of work to make themselves look such fabulous octogenarians but I’d like to think I’ll still look less like a decaying old apple and more like a barely week old one by the time I’m their age.

Ach, I know we all do. Also, I’m not likely to start with all the makeup at this stage of my life… the very idea!... but perhaps, due to my lack of made up sophistication, I’ll look more like myself first thing in the morning, than many others of my age? Perhaps. Not that that’s a great thing but, I just don’t believe that Fonda looks much less than 80 first thing of a morning. Which is fine, she’s still lovely, not saying otherwise. Just, she’ll look her age. Surely. I do know how much difference makeup can make, just, it's not to me. Plus, I never was as fit (in all meanings of the word) as she was. I do know this, I'm not delusional.

Given I hope to reach ninety years of age, there are still many years to go, so I should try and improve, or at the very least, save, what body I still have, for as long as I have it. The intentions are there, as they have been for a long time. Making no promises here, no vows, no resolutions. I know me. Fat, wrinkled, ageing me. Bear with me, I’m a pensioner. 

I do like THAT bit... the pension coming in. I know it is only my due, I paid to get it, I'm not tugging my forelock in gratitude exactly, but it's sort of like... compensation. 'You're as old as God now, so, here you go... enjoy.' So it is a kind of compensation to have it come in every month, despite no longer working. It will be a great shame if the powers stop arranging the collection and distribution of it all. I'll be voting against that all my days... 'up the workers' and all that. We wrinklies will man the barricades, don't you worry kiddo.

I remember being given up a seat on the tram for the first time, in my thirties. Not pregnant, not loaded with shopping, just 'here you go, mrs'. Manners, to a woman standing, by a youth. My first confrontation of true, polite, condescension to 'an older person'... at least, one older than them. It killed me. I took the seat mind, I'm not stupid and my feet were killing me. But that was the start. I've often enough been miffed at not being offered a seat since then, but times and attitudes change so it's not all me being shunned or ignored. I've seen me glare at some kid not even offering and I've seen myself stand for younger than me with a toddler (for instance) rather than berate the teenager opposite me. 

Age though eh? It's not a thing anyone can halt. The most plastically enhanced, Botox injected and gorgeous person will still be their given age. With a wrinkly neck and age-spotted hands to prove it. With memories of things they couldn't possibly know of if they were the age they are attempting to look.

So I'm holding on to that. If I wasn't the age I am, with the (ahem) imperfections I have, I wouldn't have the fabulous memories, or the children, or grandchildren I do have and I really couldn't contemplate that. It is ever-expanding, the memory-bank. Putting aside the forgetfulness, it is continually filled with new memories. Actually, it's a miracle when you think of it, just how much it all can hold. I'm aware, Alzheimer's etc. but those memories have been there to start with. You can't lose or erase what isn't there to begin with.  So yes, I'm holding on to that. Wrinkles, loose skin and jowls... the lot of it. I don't like it, but apparently, it is the fare to the end of the line so... not ringing the bell to stop the tram just yet. Come the time, and I'm ninety-six or something, these ramblings will surely sound excessively ludicrous. One request though, can the tram slow down a bit?