Chairs and Old Age

Today, I started my day with bloodwork, and when I sat down in the extremely large chair, I looked to my right, and there was a considerable crucifix hanging on the wall. It seemed out of place. I was pretty sure this wasn’t a catholic office, yet it looked just like the crucifix in my Italian grandparent’s house. It was large, daunting, and out of place. I couldn’t wait to get out of that room and go somewhere more relaxing, my hair appointment. 

But as I plopped down in that comfy chair at the salon, I stared at the mirror while Abbey put the cape on. I knew she was asking me what we were doing today, but I couldn’t answer her because I was distracted by the old lady staring back at me from the mirror. As Abbey combed my hair, it seemed to get grayer with each brush stroke until all I could see was white. Pure white, and it freaked me out. I looked away from my hair and up at my forehead, and up there was more evidence of an old lady. There were such pronounced lines running across my forehead, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I was confused by the whiteness of my hair or because of the years of furrowing my brow. How did this happen? How did I become such an old lady? 

I’ll be 58 years old this February, I know that because I had to pull out the calculator app on my phone and confirm that 2025 minus 1967, does indeed come to 58. As I sat hiding out in my closet (long story short, I was hiding in there because someone was cleaning my house for me, and it’s weird for me to be around when she’s working. I always hear my mother’s voice telling me just to clean your house. But I hate to clean my house, and now that I’m practically 60, I have someone do it for me) contemplating how I got to look so old. 

I can remember a time when I lived in Pennsylvania, and every trip down the highway would result in a truck driver honking his horn at me. Now, I’ve entered the phase in life where I join the other older ladies in becoming invisible. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be able to throw a coat over my pajamas, throw my hair into an old lady bun at the top of my head, and not even worry about makeup, but on days like today, it all makes me feel really old. Like I needed to get things right with that crucifix at the lab old. 

In the silence of my closet, I thought about that thought, “Getting things right,” and I decided I was good with my life. Good with all the decisions I’ve made in those 57 years and had not one regret. I don’t regret past loves, I don’t regret past jobs, and I certainly don’t regret my choices to always look out for the little guy. But I’m tired, old and tired. I am happy to pass the torch to the younger people to look out for the little guy. I’m happy to leave those past choices and loves right there in the past. Tucked in the corner of my forgetful mind. 

I’m not going to lie; as I was sitting in the comfy chair while Abbey was talking about her new baby and cutting my white hair, I was thinking about what it would be like for some Botox on those lines in my forehead. Even still, in my closet, I’m fighting the urge to google “Botox options near me” and trying to embrace that old lady in the picture at the top of the post, trying to stay committed to the whole “aging gracefully and naturally,” but it’s a struggle. For now, I’m gonna sit a little longer in my closet, wait until I can’t hear the vacuum anymore, and try to convince myself I’m not as old as I look. Getting old is weird and learning how to cope with it is even more weird.

That’s all really.