Serenity Or Rage?
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the Serenity Prayer, specifically the part that says, “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” Right now, I am not feeling serene about getting older, which certainly qualifies as a thing I cannot change.
One of the (many) frustrating aspects of aging is watching helplessly as my options peel away, one by one. That long-dreamed-of solo sailing trip around the world? Not gonna happen. High-risk, high-yield financial investments? Nope. Too risky. A raucous 50th wedding anniversary party? Not unless I get married immediately and live to the age of 121.
The list of possibilities for my future used to be long and exciting. Now, I feel like a human artichoke with parts of me being pulled off by a maniacal bacchanalian reveler.
In the past, me and my fierce inner mountain goat scampered up and down mountain trails all across Montana, Utah, Washington State, Colorado, Nevada, and California. These days, however, while I can still hike up steep trails, I must decide in advance how to descend. Will I scoot down the vertical parts on my butt, or do a backward hunch walk (forcing oncoming hikers to encounter my ancient derrière), or call Search and Rescue to airlift me off the mountain?
Throughout my youth, middle, and late-middle years, I worked out in gyms. I played racquetball and soccer, basketball and softball. I walked 10,000+ steps most days. I often rode a bike instead of driving. I was determined to glide into my Golden Years fit and healthy. Turns out, determination cannot overcome biology. Darn it.
Walking down steep inclines now hurts my knees, and my quadriceps aren’t as strong as they used to be. But I still love to hike, and I kind of enjoy strategizing my way off mountains, even if I look like a lame stork doing it. My social strategies haven’t been as successful, though.
I arrived in my Golden Years still fairly robust, and overly enthusiastic about this unexplored territory. Until, that is, the wall of social prejudice I slammed into knocked me senseless — as in I couldn’t make sense of the thing called ageism. What did it have to do with me? I didn’t think of myself as elderly, but, evidently, everyone else did.
When I arrived at a senior living facility to scout the space where my band was scheduled to perform, staff assumed I was disoriented and lost, or a prospective tenant. They offered to escort me back to my room, or to the marketing office. When I got a part-time job with a landscaping company, young men rushed over to help every time I tried to carry equipment or transfer tree limbs from a truck to the trash container.
During my previous search for work, in “professional” environments, I noted the looks of horror when my wrinkled face entered the interview room. Those kinds of responses were startling, and then depressing. My résumé and experience matched the job description, which was why they had contacted me for an interview. But when they saw me, people judged and assumed.
Don’t we all?
After I gave up on professional employment, it took a while to convince the owners of the landscaping company to hire me. They didn’t think I was physically capable of doing the work, which required lifting “up to 30 pounds” (the phrase included in job descriptions that’s supposed to deter older workers from applying) and driving a company truck. But after I flexed a bicep, assured them of my spotless driving record, and delivered a speech about the dependability of older workers, they agreed to give me the job. Fifteen months later, they’re very happy about that decision. And I’m grateful to them for pushing beyond their biased ideas about oldsters. But what happens when this job, or any job, is no longer an option because I physically can’t do the work? How will I find serenity when mountain hikes are no longer possible?
As my body continues to age (darn it) it looks like I’ll finally be forced to accept its limitations — forced into the serenity of acceptance. Now there’s an oxymoronic collection of words.
Or I could decide to become a raging curmudgeon. I could choose to go with Dylan Thomas who advised that, “Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Serenity or rage? Now that’s an option no one can peel away from me.
