Staring Down Father Time

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

Father Time smirks at me. His knowing gaze professes: “You can run but you cannot hide!” I reply with a raised eyebrow and a husky “Game on, Brother!” He knows not who he is dealing with.

As the saying goes, “Getting old is not for sissies.” And the truth is… I am aging just like the rest of us. Indeed, the sands of time seem to be racing faster through the tiny waist of that blasted hourglass. 

The realization of cresting the proverbial hill happens innocently enough. A younger acquaintance will blankly stare at the mention of a high-profile rock band from my era who is still performing, albeit now at county fairs. (Some have never heard of Mick Jagger. Mick Jagger!) Lines from once popular sitcoms or colloquialisms do not elicit the same chuckle from contemporaries as in years past. And I suddenly find myself asking the identity of current celebrities now referred to as “social influencers.” Reminders are seemingly everywhere that I am approaching the black hole of social irrelevancy. Johnny Carson has been replaced by a bevy of other hosts. Back in the day, we only needed one or, at most, a few talk show ringleaders. Now, at any hour night or day, you cannot fling the remote without hitting some sort of circular discussion about who knows what. 

My young adult daughters try to keep me in their loop, but it is increasingly apparent that I need regular quizzing to keep me up to “IT GIRL” standards. 

In my own humble defense, I do keep current on a few things that interest me. 

I have kept a running list of childhood television classics possessing deep knowledge that I feel newer generations have clearly suffered missing out on. M*A*S*H, The Andy Griffith Show, All In The Family, Mr. Rodgers’ Neighborhood, Sesame Street, Carol Burnett (or any “variety show” for that matter), and the original Saturday Night Live with Dan Aykroyd, Jim Belushi, Jane Curtin and Gilda Radner. And all those iconic 80s bands and artists who still elicit a smug smile upon my lips whenever I hear their timeless vibes chosen for contemporary gatherings. At least my generation did something right in the name of cool-factor transcendence. 

Truth is: I am a different person now thanks to more life experience. And I am starting to round that corner toward retirement to hang out with folks who routinely wear sensible shoes, shaping undergarments, and who remember and appreciate Bob Hope’s perennial humor. While that may seem an extreme example, you get the point. (For the record, Bob was my parents’ era, though he still makes me laugh.)

So what does one do when it comes time to stare down that bend in the road leading to the presumed Golden Years? While I cannot speak for anyone else, I intend to keep asking all kinds of questions about all kinds of things. To keep trying to understand what makes each generation tick. To remain calm while appearing clueless and to graciously welcome being “brought up to speed” when necessary. To dance with my daughters in the kitchen to some band or naughty rapper I have never heard of. And to be comfortable at the back of the pack, letting the young ‘uns forge ahead in unbridled glory upon their own inimitable journeys. 

Aging is daunting, but what I have enjoyed most is the enlightenment these later years provide: acceptance of self, the realization that we’ve got what it takes to tackle the hard stuff life tosses our way, and the grace to know when and how to effectively communicate our needs. These are precious gifts that we, entering the KMA – Kiss My Arse – Club – have earned with aplomb. And we are hysterically funny – just ask us! 

While the clock may be ticking more loudly than ever, this chick is not going down quietly. Sure, we all have expiration dates, but I choose to believe that being a rowdy reveler may be my best defense. And my dance card is far from full. Take that, Father Time!