Joyce OreComing to grips with aging takes time, experience


When our oldest daughter had our first grandson, I welcomed this new generation to our family with love, joy and a sense that time was moving on.

When I noticed my first gray hair and it was standing up with a better posture than mine, I plucked it out with trepidation and an unsteady hand.

When I realized that the brown spot on my hand wasn’t an oversized freckle, I begin to feel the years churning by. When that simple freckle was joined by a forest, I began to wonder why the years were churning by so fast.

When my best chum from high school became a great-grandmother, I brushed away the notion that I wasn’t a kid anymore — for a moment.

When a friend went shopping with me and suggested a shoe I tried on looked like the ones my mother wore, and I bought them anyway because they were so comfortable, I began to wonder what was happening.

When a late night meant getting through the 10 o’clock news without falling asleep on the couch, I grew suspicious that things were no longer as they once were.

When I had my eyes checked and was told I needed trifocals or have my arm extended by a foot, I began to have an inkling that indeed I had reached middle age, which meant I would live to be well over 120.

When I started drinking Metamucil and focusing on what I was eating and how I was treating my body, I passed it off as being more in tune with my inner self, but I had a gnawing suspicion.

When I attached my daughter’s weighted Hula Hoop a month ago with the determination to have it swing around my mid-section for more than a second of two, then couldn’t walk without pain for a week or two, I began to sense that I wasn’t as young as I used to be.

But it wasn’t until a day or two ago when the clerk in the grocery store gave us a smile and said, “Now you kids have fun the rest of the day,” that I felt old.



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