This post written a few days ago while visiting my parents who unbelievably no longer have internet access.
I can’t seem to shake this fascination with the passage of time, with life stages and shifting perspectives.
I see my folks less often than I’d like. Most of the year they are nine hours away, until recently in western North Carolina, and now in Tennessee. They will be 80 years old in the coming year, and while both are starting to show the effects of aging, my mother’s world is changing more rapidly.
My thoughts on that are so ponderous I won’t try to get at them yet, suffice to say that seeing her ever-shortening step reminds me that our time here grows ever shorter with each passing day.
We attended church with my parents today, my first visit to a church in many, many months. I liked it more than I expected. But the image that keeps coming back to me as I consider the phenomenon of passing time has nothing to do with the worship. It could have happened in any restroom, I think, or maybe the scene was altered by our surroundings. With me in the restroom were two young beauties in cute dresses, perfect hair, the right touches of make-up, etc. Rather than the usual teenage banter, they were silent. Not so odd, but the way they each locked eyes with her own reflection in the mirror and did not allow that gaze to wander as they washed and dried their hands gave me pause. For a second I saw the self-talk, the hidden self-doubt, the beauty anxiety that every female faces with intensity sometime between 14-25 (and often well beyond). The old, “yeah, I am pretty, but am I pretty enough?” question was apparent. This real or imagined teenage angst, combined with the harsh reality of the years’ effect on my mother, prompts reflection on my own life stage. With my children grown according to the calendar, and approaching the time when they are truly on their own—this means out of my pocket and my house, an inevitability I refuse to rush—D. and I are looking forward to many more years. I am glad to be past the “perfect the package” deal with my body, but I can’t deny a need for more fitness. What is this stage of life really about? I’m not ready to start getting old. I know I don’t want the same things my parents wanted. I don’t want to be married to the healthcare system when I’m 80, building my life around doctor’s appointments. I’d really rather be dead. But I may not feel that way at 79. What is in my mother's head as she faces the mirror each day?
So, there was something profound in my head when this began and now it seems it boils down to life is short. Bet most of my readers know that and have for some time. But maybe we can’t appreciate how short until the end is nearly in sight. Happy new year. I plan to enjoy this one, as they’re whizzing by pretty fast now.
