ozarque's Journal

Eldering, and a lexical canyon....

mamadeb have said in comments on my "sea change" post that they are disconcerted when I characterize myself as a Little Old Lady. They're willing to accept the idea that I'm little, since anyone can look at me and see that that is true; they are kind and courteous enough to accept my claim that I'm a lady; but they're disconcerted about my saying that I'm old. And I've been thinking about that, and thinking that it's a good subject for a post, and having a hard time getting that post written.

There is of course the obvious fact that the mainstream Anglo culture in the U.S. is a youth-worshipping culture, where people think that they're complimenting you -- especially if you're a woman -- when they say things like "My goodness, you don't look sixty!" [or fifty, or forty, or whatever] and "Good heavens, you certainly don't look old enough to be a grandmother!" I've known many men, some of them my kin, who've had a terrible time dealing with their fiftieth birthday. And when I was on book tour for The Grandmother Principles, I was shocked to discover that many of the women in my audiences had looking younger than their daughters and daughters-in-law as a primary goal. All of that is familiar now; it isn't exactly what I wanted to write about in this post, and I'm certain that it isn't what inspired the comments from

hilleviw and

mamadeb.

As recently as a year ago, I could truthfully say that although I understood intellectually that I was old -- 70 certainly qualifies as old -- I didn't feel old. I felt much the same way I'd felt at 40 and 50, and was always startled (and annoyed) when I discovered that I got tired more quickly than I did at 40 and 50. As recently as a year ago, I was surprised when I looked in a mirror and saw an old woman looking back at me, because as long as I couldn't see myself my mental image of Me was a woman of maybe 45 or 46.

That's not true for me any more. Now, a few months shy of being 71, I feel old, and when I see myself in a mirror I recognize myself immediately as Me. I don't have any Nora Ephron moments of fretting over that and hating my neck, but I no longer think "My goodness, who's that?", the way I did a year ago. It distresses me that I've lost three-fourths of my hair, because the thought of having to fool about with a wig is ghastly and I don't want to have to bother with any such nonsense, but I don't hate my hair. Many trees lose most or all of their leaves in the autumn; many old ladies lose most or all of their hair in the autumn; if I end up having to wear a wig I'll no doubt survive that. But that's not what I really wanted to write about here either.

What I wanted to do was explain clearly and concisely what it is to feel old. What it's like. How it feels. And to my chagrin, given that I'm supposed to be a competent writer and a trained linguist, I've discovered that I'm not able to do that. There doesn't seem to be any suitable English vocabulary that will serve that purpose. It's not just a lexical gap, it's a lexical canyon, and I don't seem to be able to write my way across it.

Maybe it's just not something I can do in prose? That's possible. Maybe I haven't felt old long enough to understand it properly and thoroughly; maybe I'm still too new at this? That's possible. Maybe a youth-worshipping culture's language is genuinely unsuitable for expressing the perceptions that go with being old? That's also possible.

And maybe it's something else entirely, that just hasn't occurred to me but will perhaps occur to you. If so, I am, as always, listening with my full attention.