More Fragile Than Life is Living
The grandparents that raised me were born in 1933 and 1935, the middle of the Great Depression. Consequently, I spent a lot of time with older folks that were two generations ahead of me. They were cautious and conscientious, prudent with resources, loyal to their institutions. My grandfather was nearly deployed to the Korean War; thankfully, it ended before he left American soil. My grandmother gave me an earful about the virtues of McCarthyism when I was reading Arthur Miller’s The Crucible my junior year of high school. Bless her heart. (Rest in peace, Momma.)
I was also an only child, and this marked me indelibly by the Silent Generation. I often felt out of place among my peers, and I wonder how many adults in my community felt pity for me, abandoned by my birth parents, holding fast to the side of a cliff in a generation gap. As I reflect on my childhood, I can see that I was often isolated, lonely, and deeply sad.
But strength is born in adversity. I felt out of place among my peers because I was out of place. I did not inherit the post-modern mindset of my fellow Gen-Xers, and I was not raised to follow my passions at all costs like Millenials. My Silent Generation grandparents showed me the value of a little elbow grease, thriftiness, determination, and time with loved ones. “Self-actualization” was not promoted in my home. That term would have been met by my family with indignation at worst, a huge question mark at best.
I’m now older than my grandparents were when I was born. I still occasionally find myself out of place with my peers, but I’m discovering how much I enjoy spending time with people who are a lot older than me. In the past few years, I’ve made a new relationship with a couple in their 70s, and they have become like dear family. Our sweet neighbor, now passed, was in her 80s. We had a good 8 years of knowing her, and I still want to be like Mrs. Caroline when I grow up. What a gift to have been able to relate to these people as friends.
I find that I’m thoroughly enjoying some aspects of aging. I feel more accepting of my physical appearance, sure that the key to looking young is maintaining a bitchin’ wardrobe. They grey hair, the wrinkles … who cares? There will always be great clothes. I’ve let go of the guilt for not overdoing it on cardio and cross fit. I don’t have extra time to feel like I got hit by a train, so walking, yoga, and strength training will have to do. Anything that allows to me to continue to hike, kayak, travel with my family, and eventually keep up with grandchildren.
I’m 48, and maybe when I’m 58 I’ll be shaking my head at this blog post. I’m always in danger of cancer striking again, so I choose to enjoy my life as much as I can because I’m really not afraid of dying. I really only want to live until 72–that sounds just perfect. Because: life is a slog, it can be sad, and it is over soon. My grandparents are gone, and that taught me as much as anything could that life will be short, no matter the dates on the tombstone. What I didn’t know, in my foolish young body and mind, is that life is still enjoyable, thrilling even, after 40, 50, 60, and 70.
A recent young victim of cancer, the singer-songwriter known as Nightbirde said,
“You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you decide to be happy.”
I want to be happy, to wear bitchin’ clothes, and laugh while I raise a toast to those who came before and those I love now, all the way until my 72nd birthday, and longer if I must.