When
Are You Old?
I have
been thinking about this question lately. Is it the number of
birthdays? Are you just as old as you feel? Age versus attitude?
As my
65th birthday approaches in June, I have been inundated
with Medicare Supplement plans through junk mail and robocalls. For
those who have not yet dealt with this, Medicare is automatic at age
65 if you are getting Social Security unless you specifically say you
don't want it. Unfortunately it does not cover all the medical costs
we “older” people tend to have. That's where the Supplement plans
come in. So will the government and the insurance companies consider
me old on June 14th? In this age where we are generally living
longer, most days I don't feel old. So I decided to do some research.
I
found a chart that showed the estimated longevity of women born in
the 20th Century. My maternal grandmother, born in 1908,
should have lived to be 66. She died at 92. My mother, born in 1929,
was at 68 on the chart. She died at 72, 5 weeks after her mother. Me,
it was 76. Each chart I found varied from the previous.
I
think it was either Thomas Jefferson or Abraham Lincoln who said,
“83% of all statistics on the Internet are false”.
To be
fair it seems to me there are a lot of factors in play here, health,
disease, genetics, bad habits, accidents, etc. These charts are based
on averages for insurance companies, age = death. But a lot of people
never reach old age. We have been told we are not promised tomorrow.
So when will I know that I am old?
I
remembered a poem I read many years ago by Jenny Joseph.
When
I Am An Old Woman
When
I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Since
don't feel that I am there yet, I decided to practice old age by
wearing a little purple this way:
Next
up, does anyone know an old woman who can teach me to spit for
distance and accuracy?
