For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be Old. When I was five I wanted to be ten, when I was ten I wanted to be 13, and, much to my parents' dismay, when I was 13 I couldn't wait to be 16. And now? Now I think age 80 is going to be the best. age. ever. My motives have changed but the basic truth remains; Being Old is a wonderful thing. In this situation - as is the case in most situations - Old is an obviously arbitrary term, much like the way 'when I grow up' is tossed around as if we all know what it means.
I've yet to meet anyone who knows what this phrase means.
Still, I want to be Old. If Old is synonymous with wise, which happens to be synonymous with experienced, then Old, by all means, is something I'd like to be. It's an attraction not unlike the way I'm attracted to savory foods after eight p.m. - an addiction of sorts. Like a magnet is helpless against the pull of steel, I too am helpless against the pull of wanting to be Old.
It isn't the flesh colored hearing devices fit snugly in the ear, nor the excessive use of words like slacks and hankies. While these things flirt for my attention like a young boy flirts with his girl by throwing rocks up her skirt, they aren't what have won me over.
That honor would go to the story.
Oh, how I long to have a story. A well written narrative with depth, and breadth, and flavor - some sort of culmination of climbed mountains, swam oceans, and eaten Italian food. Somewhere it was written on my soul that this story is perfected by reaching Old and as a result I envy those whose tale has been mastered. I listen to their beautifully written autobiography and hope, pray really, that their wisdom, experience, and years can swim across the air and seep beneath my skin to make me even just one minute closer to Old.
So I wait with a mixture of eager anticipation and longing, as if tomorrow were my birthday, or Christmas, and I try to make today a good page in the story of my life.
Here's to living to be Old.
Have a wonderful weekend.