The Shame of Aging

A few years ago, I overheard a real estate agent telling a prospective buyer of the house next door that the tall bushes along our fence must be there because the owners (us) either must like their privacy or they were old and couldn’t keep up.

For some reason, this comment stung. I do like my privacy, yes, but I had to check myself: Had I let things go?  Were neighbors noticing our somewhat unkempt yard, which I preferred to lawns partly because I wanted to preserve some small bit of land for insects, birds and other creatures? But, in a subdivision of mostly neat lawns, were my neighbors gossiping about the old ladies on the block who couldn’t keep it together?

I stopped thinking about this incident until I was recently visiting a relative in her 40s. She and her family had moved into an older neighborhood where most of the original homes were small, maybe 1,000 square feet at most, the kind that were perfectly adequate when my generation, born in the 1950s, was younger. But a new generation wanted bigger houses for their families—I don’t blame them—and was either replacing the smaller houses with bigger ones or adding a second floor. My young relative complained that a lot of the people on the block weren’t renovating their houses but were letting them go, which was bringing down the property values for the whole neighborhood.

Of course, without her saying so, I knew that the people who were content with their plain old small brick houses were my generation, who didn’t need anything bigger or fancier. They had raised their children, who were now gone, and wanted nothing more than their small houses and gardens. Even though my cousin complained about this innocently, not even thinking, I’m sure, that I was one of those old people, I had to cringe.

Yet our yard and house are nowhere near as bad as the older neighbors down the street whose belongings spill out from the garage and whose two decrepit cars are stuffed. There’s no question they are hoarders, but I wonder if young people in the neighborhood think this is what happens when you get old. Of course, the younger generations grew up with computers, where most of their life is stored, so they don’t have old letters, vacation photos, records and DVDs or stereo systems taking up so much physical space.

While I have too much stuff, I don’t have enough memory, which is embarrassing when you’re standing in front of the car service guy and trying to remember the name of your car part that needs replacing. I routinely find myself in situations where store clerks, waiters and medical staff slowly explain things to me, not without some condescension. Or am I feeling shame because I can’t figure out how the self-serve coffee machine in my doctor’s office works?

I was recently at a doctor’s appointment and the young physician’s assistant suggested two procedures that would help my condition. When I went to make an appointment for one of them, I confused one procedure with the other, and the receptionist (but that’s not what they call them, is it?) questioned me. To straighten it out, the PA came out and assured the receptionist that she was right. Did I notice a glance pass between them? —another confused old person?

Recently I took part in a webinar with both younger and older people. One older woman kept interrupting the proceedings because was she having trouble with Zoom. I cringed, not only ashamed for my generation that doesn’t understand technology, but also for this woman’s obliviousness at hogging the proceedings.  

Maybe the worst is our shame about our physical deterioration—wrinkles, balding or gray hair, the canes we use to hold ourselves steady, our stooped bodies, drapes on our arms, or how we sometimes struggle to get up from the chair. How do we fight that judgment in a society that values youth, beauty and physical strength? I recently read that teenage girls (!) are getting Botox, already trying at that young age to have perfect faces. It seems the standard of beauty keeps getting higher.

So how do we seniors even try to keep up? We dye our hair, work out at the gym, get surgery to remove wrinkles, and wear tight jeans so someone might possibly mistake us for a 25-year-old.  Are we accepting society’s shame? Are we disgusted by our bodies and of what they will become? We fear ending up in nursing homes, where there’s a smell of decay—of bodies that can no longer move and can’t take care of themselves—that can be sickening. Maybe that’s why some older folks work hard to make sure their houses are clean and neat, no dirt behind the fridge, no bad smells.

The other day I crossed paths with a younger man, maybe in his 30s, who was jogging. I looked at him with wonder and envy—that he could lift his legs so high without pain and move so effortlessly. Yet I can’t help but feel that, in my older years, I have one leg up on him.  I don’t know this man, but I know it takes a long time to acquire what I have—more understanding and compassion for myself and the world; and the useful ability to not take myself too seriously. He may be physically stronger, but decades of hard knocks have made my heart emotionally sturdy.