Getting used to getting old

A few weeks ago, I had the distinct pleasure of attending a book club meeting at Willamette Oaks, a retirement apartment complex in Eugene, Oregon. My mother in law moved to Willamette Oaks last fall. The book topic interested me and the club meeting served as an opportunity to engage my mother in law in her new retirement community.

         The meeting began with a lively discussion around the book, You’re Old, I’m Old…Get Used To It. Before you read any further, I make this disclaimer. I did not read the book, nor was my intention purely to learn more about the book. Therefore, this is not a book review or a recommendation to join a book club. It is however, an interesting look at the art of aging well, no matter how many birthday candles are on the cake.

         The median age of this energized bunny group was 85. Of the more than a dozen attendees, four were over the age of 90. One of the four was 98. This particular lovely lady was a disciple of Jack La Lanne. Her daily routine includes walking two miles a day, albeit with a walker. Her working life was tireless, both in New York and later in Oregon, until her retirement at the age of 95. Can you imagine the stories she has to tell?

        Due to her failing eyesight, she was no longer able to enjoy the suggested readings. She wanted to keep attending the club meetings because she enjoyed hearing about the books and the discussions that ensued. Adapting to her circumstance was her answer to the card she was now being dealt. Several group members agreed to read to her. 

          One woman declared that the author was too young to offer any new revelations about the aging process. Been there, done that, several times, was this reader’s attitude. Preaching to a choir of white hairs, the group generally agreed, despite the few humorous moments in the book. Curious as to what this young author was thinking when she decided to tackle a real look at aging gracefully; I felt compelled to ask the age of the author. The answer? She was 65 years old.

         I began to feel a bit anxious. Rather than wait to be discovered as a youngster hiding between the wrinkles and grey hair, I confessed that, I, too, was a mere sixty years old. Certain they would hand me my walking papers, I was surprised when they asked my thoughts on aging. The lone gentleman asked everyone to share what they had done between the ages of 65 and 85. Some had been married, others lost a spouse, traveling the world, moved across country, had a heart attack. Short of sky diving, this group had done more living in the last 20 years than I have done in the last 40.

         To my delight, they invited me back next month. My mother in law enjoyed the group and after the club adjourned she lingered a while talking with a few of the women. It was a morning well spent and the endeavor successful.

There is nothing old about these bookworms. They talk about enjoying life, not losing it. The club rules are simple. No talking about aches and pains. That was the one thing they all agreed on. Get used to it. Now that’s what a wise grandma will do. Just as soon as I’m old enough.