Magic Mirror

There are certain birthdays which seem significant—the sixteenth (driver’s license), the twenty-first (drinking age), the thirtieth (no longer trustworthy), the fiftieth (halfway to one hundred), the sixty-fifth (Medicare) and probably every birthday after seventy (because you are as good as dead). I recall vividly the excitement of the driver’s license exam and the pride taken in that small piece of freedom-giving paper. The twenty-first was celebrated in the bar of a Chinese restaurant in McMinnville, Oregon. The thirtieth has been forgotten but on my fortieth I was surprised before breakfast by a housefull of neighbors and friends as I crossed our kitchen from bathroom to bedroom. The fiftieth was notable as I had achieved my only business goal—retirement. And, today, the sixty-fifth, because I become eligible for socialized medicine. I must admit that it seems to be some kind of cruel joke that one can actually have to say, “I’m sixty-five.” No one ever really imagines themselves being so old or older. We fight it. We aren’t graceful about it. We make inventories of the things we can still do: can still carry a golf bag eighteen holes, can still get on the roof to clean the gutters, can still tote a bag of cement fifty feet, can still chop wood, can still read without spectacles, can still put  palms on the floor w/o bending the old knees, can still shoot a version of a jump shot, can still swim a mile, etc. ad nausea. Small victories over decrepitude. But there is no denying the deterioration, the spreading, sagging and fading. For women, this is most often depressing. For men, I think, it is confusing. In our house the confusion is abetted by the magic mirror in our bathroom. It’s original to the house and decorates the medicine cabinet door. When we remodeled this place we saved it because it was worth saving. It’s probably a combination of the old glass, the lighting and the rosy bathroom color but my roommate and I agree that we both look pretty dang good in that mirror. And, then, I’ll see a photo of myself and everything is all gray and wattled. In short, old looking. We should rip that mirror off the wall and take it with us to our new digs and refuse ever to look at a current photo again. Or, instead, suck it up and grow old gracefully. Afterall, there’s there’s Medicare, and those discounts.