A week ago, I sat in a zoom circle organized by Jenny Antolak to reflect on a problem endemic to almost anyone over the age of 30: We have been so busy growing up that we have often forgotten how to fall in love with our lives. Jenny directed us to Shel Silverstein’s remarkable poem, “Growing Down”, which starts with a description of Mr. Brown, “the grumpiest man in town” who constantly hectors children to grow up, but ends up learning from them:
He got his trousers torn and stained,
He ran out barefoot in the rain,
Shouting to all the folks in town,
“It’s much more fun, this growin’ down.”
As we shared about the rules we followed in order to become successful adults, I confronted my carefully nurtured self-image as a bit of a rebel and a rule-breaker. Sure, I made some career choices that were “risky”, leaving a plum job at Tufts University to go to a soft-money research institute, and later making a decision to detour from an obvious path to higher administrative positions in order to become a “regular” faculty member – but those were within a game where I knew all the rules and which ones I could break with no consequences. More often I made careful and conventional choices that were “adult” and “responsible”, in marriage, in work, in friendships and other commitments.
But, while recovering from a divorce that my then-husband and I had avoided for years (those rules– “until death do us part”), I fell in love with someone who, before we were even sure that we were an item, asked me to join him in a spitting contest on the porch! The silliness of it blew me away – as well as the utter charm of being childlike in my mid-50s. When we married, I included in our vows his obligation to make me laugh every day. No problem there, but on the outside, I still held on to the persona of someone who had been handed the playbook of life and had memorized it. And I wanted to look it. I colored my hair. I wore eyeliner. I bought my clothes at the American Craft Council shows, not at Macys. And of course I had the black dress (or pants and top) to show them off.
Fast forward to retirement…when all the rules could change because we had played by the careful financial planning rules for middle-income professionals. But then there is a new script – the script for aging gracefully from the New York Times. Horrifyingly, it starts not with social skills or running barefoot in the rain, but with buying a hearing aid sooner rather than later and making sure to give up your driver’s license before, rather than after, an accident.
Another article also triggered me, reporting that The Villages, a retirement community in Florida, has grown to more than 150,000 residents–with a 10 page list of rules governing residents. Could Mr. Brown learn to “grow down” there, or would he be tied to an art class at 10, golf at 1, and cocktails at 5? The behavioral rules of aging tell us where we want to live, what we should wear (read any woman’s magazine, which has hair and clothing suggestions tailored to age….), what to eat, how much to exercise, and repeatedly urge us to stay socially connected (once we get the hearing aids that allow us to…)
What happened to “When I Grow Old, I Will Wear Purple”, and Jenny Joseph’s 1992 warning that,
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
Jenny argues for joyful silliness and breaking rules precisely because we are old enough to realize that we could always have gotten away with it – but were too cautious (or forgot).
Karen Martha laughed when I mentioned this, recalling that, when she recently complained about loud music in a coffee shop, her granddaughter (who happens to be our blog’s technical assistant) looked at her and said, “you usually don’t act like a grandma, but just now you did.” Ooph – a 2X4 to the side of the head to remind us that it’s ok to ask for a quiet table in a restaurant when we are out with our 70+ year old friends, but not ok when we make it into a rule.
Which also reminds me that my 16-year-old granddaughter was invited to see Chicago by a friend’s grandmother. The kids assumed that they were going to see a local production of the musical. When they got there, it turned out to be the band by the same name—at least some of whom are septuagenarians. They had a blast listening to the songs that rocked our world when we were in our 20s! Now that’s an astute grandma.
We are still part of the circus of life. So, every circus has lots of rules – they are there to govern the safety of the performers. However, the performance needs to ensure that the audience is only aware of the magic and not what keeps the circus functioning behind the scenes. The behind-the-scenes rules for those of us who wish to age well while “not acting like a grandma” is to pay attention only to new rules that keep us safe (if your knee suggests that a cane will keep you from falling, use it!), while ignoring the rules governing old people’s behavior that are designed to keep us invisible. Even more, can we celebrate everyday events that suggest that we, like Mr. Brown, are growing down rather than growing up in the way that modern memes of aging expect?
I remind myself that the circus—especially Cirque du Soleil and its more modest spinoffs – is magical because it pushes us to think about our humanity beyond our usual imagination. For me, that will translate into more humble efforts: Getting down on the floor to play with a 4-year-old (my knees remind me that it was a lot easier with the oldest grandchild, but I can still do it). Or remembering to have another spitting context. Or sometimes just doing whatever equivalent of running in the rain strikes me. I am reminded of the last lines of Brittany Spears’ song – prescient as the voice of someone who was forced to play by other people’s rules for much of her life:
Don’t stand there watching me, follow me, show me what you can do
Everybody let go, we can make a dance floor just like a circus
I guess that I am the ringmaster here….
Makes me want to go out and break some rules!
For many years I felt that getting older was the thing to do. But recently I found that at my age (72) learning how to be old with grace and joy is a new, different and fun challenge.
Well said, and an entire new dimension to the idea of breaking some rules.
My mum [1917-2012] regarded dying as a vexing interruption of her next project. When she was about 90 she muttered to me “Being old isn’t for the young. It’s bl**dy hard work.” I find myself getting annoyingly creaky when walking (cycling’s OK). Checking on exercises for people of a certain age I was irritated by cautions against ‘overdoing it. I want someone to yell at me as I stagger and stumble and stoop – as here: https://youtu.be/l6bFxh2cnzU
it pleases me that I can still (albeit more slowly and with hiking poles) take a decent hike in Colorado and NM–makes up for my increasing sense of insecurity on a bike!