Some Thoughts (and Verse) on Aging

Published August 3, 1989. I was going through my files of some of the thoughts column readers have sent in. One happened to be about growing old. Someone once noted that age is relative. Anyone is old who is 10 years older than yourself. Ten-year-olds think that those in their late teens or early 20s are “old.” My children think I was born shortly after Columbus discovered America. And those approaching 30 dread the day when they turn 40 and become “old.”

The interesting thing is that the age at which we think we become “old” keeps increasing . . . as we grow older. People in their 50s relish the youthfulness supposedly lost in the 60s. And those in their 70s believe themselves to be young while those in their 80s are “aging a bit.” My mother-in-law, Alice Day in American Fork, turned 88 last May and is afraid she might soon experience midlife crisis. And so it goes.

Have you ever noticed when you ask someone who is “old” how they are doing, the usual response is “I’m doing fine.” Arnold Price from Brixham in Devon, England sent the following poem titled “I’m Fine, Thank You.” You might find it interesting. I did.

There really is nothing the matter with me.

I am as healthy as healthy can be.

I have arthritis in both knees

And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze

My pulse is weak and my blood is thin,

But I’m awfully well for the state I’m in.

Arch supports prop up my feet

Or I wouldn’t be able to walk down the street.

Sleep is denied me night after night

Yet every morning I find I’m all right.

My memory is fading, my head’s in a spin,

But I’m awfully well for the state I’m in.

The moral is this (as my tale unfolds)

That for you and me who are growing old.

‘Tis better to say “I’m fine” with a grin

Than to let folks know the state we’re in.

How do I know that my youth is spent?

Well, my “get up and go”

Just go up and went!

Old age is golden, I’ve often heard said.

But sometimes I wonder as I get into bed,

My hearing aid in drawer, my teeth in a cup

My specs on the table until I wake up

Ere sleep overtakes me I say to myself

Is there anything else I can lay on the shelf?

When I was young my shoes were red

 I could kick my heels right over my head

When I was older my shoes were blue

But still I could dance the whole night through.

Now I am old, and my shoes are black

And I walk to the shops and puff my way back.

I get up each morning and dust off my wits

Pick up the paper and read the “Obits.

If my name is missing I know I’m not dead

So I have a good breakfast and go back to bed.

Our thanks to Arnold Price for sending the poem all the way from Brixham, England. Perhaps you have some thoughts on what it means to grow older.