Just how old is old? The answer is not as easy or as clear-cut as it may seem. For you see, the definition of old keeps changing the older we get.
During my seven magical years growing up on 110 Flamingo Street, the answer to the question was easy. If asked, I would’ve told you that “old” was anyone the same age as my parents.
My parents wore old clothes, drove old cars, and even had really old friends. Yep, at age 8, being old was being my parents’ age. I didn’t really know how old they were; I just knew they were old. (Looking back now, they were 35 at the time of my great age assessment.)
During the five years I attended Briarwood High School, home of the Mighty Buccaneers, I would’ve said old was anyone who took a nap in the afternoon. The only people I knew who did that were my grandparents, and they were so old they were ancient. They were even older than my parents, and by that time my parents were really old.
If you asked while I was attending college, I would’ve said the people who moved really slowly in the grocery store, used walkers or canes, drove slowly in the left lane, or had gray hair were old. Now three out of the five characteristics of that definition apply to me.
My neighbor works full-time as a teacher and is a mother of twin 6-year-old girls and another girl almost 3. She has diapers to change, meals to cook, baths to give, and papers to grade when she gets home. If asked, my neighbor would say that she feels old. She will turn 30 this year.
Looking back through the years, even though the number of candles on the cake keeps changing, one thing remains constant. The older I get, the more my definition of “old” changes.
Of course, it changes inversely to my age. If asked at the beginning of this year, I would’ve said without a doubt that anyone over 70 is old. That is until last week.
Last week I saw Luther, a good friend of mine, fishing out at Twin Lakes. Luther will turn 71 in a couple of months. He said with his new knee he feels 50 again.
In a few days, I will have been on this blue spinning orb for some 58 years. Long ago an 8-year-old boy growing up on Flamingo Street could not possibly comprehend such an age. Now it’s soon to be a reality.
With my body wrecked over the years with countless orthopedic injuries, bolted back together by 10 operations, getting out of bed each morning makes me feel very, very old.
But I must get up. There are things eagerly waiting on me. After a couple of strategically placed heat packs, 30 minutes of stretching, and a healthy breakfast, I’m ready to take on the day.
There are two little granddaughters who need to play. They think their Big Papa is as young as they are. I spend most mornings getting jumped on like an old couch, then watching them swing and slide for hours at the play park. Most afternoons we head to Twin Lakes to feed Cheerios to the growing family of ducks and to chase bubbles. The girls are the ones running, not me. I’m too busy taking pictures and videos.
In the evenings, we fix dinner, play games on the floor and finally give baths and read bedtime stories. Does all of this make me feel old?
As my granddaughters fall asleep in my arms and I look down at their angelic faces, at 58, the answer is no. I don’t feel old at all. I just feel lucky.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
