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What lies before me: Oldness

One thing that excites me is the fact that someday I will be an old lady. Why does this excite me? Because I have decided to be excited about it. One thing that I’ve practiced is deliberate appreciation of my physical self. For example, I see many girls who are tall who are very unhappy with that fact. They slouch their six foot tall frame down to five feet ten inches and make it painfully obvious how miserable they are about their magnificent elevation. I am six feet four inches, and though I do have moments of wishing I were smaller, I ultimately love being tall. I love it because what can I do about it? Cut off my feet for the sake of looking up to people? No! Similarly, many girls who have straight hair want curly hair, and curly girls want strait hair. I have very curly hair, and I am so very satisfied with that fact. If it were straight it would look dumb, in my opinion. When I was in grade three I had phase where I desired strait hair, so my friend generously offered to brush it until it went straight. After what seemed like hours of scalp-pulling agony, I grew resigned to having curly hair. And I’ve liked it ever since.

I say this to illustrate my point that if you can’t change it, embrace it! (unless it is harmful, of course. One might argue that old age is harmful, because it means you’re going to die soon, but who said that was a bad thing?) Yes indeed, I plan on embracing my elderliness and enjoying it as much as I can. For starters, I plan on having a sweet Eccentric-Old-Biddy wardrobe.

When I’m old, I’m going to be rather imposing. Who ever though of a six foot four inch tall gramma? So to add to the image, I plan on going for Ancient-Gypsy-esque. Ukrainian scarves, tinted spectacles (with a chain that goes around my neck), striped stockings, garishly patterned coats, big carpet bags, a pipe, moccasins (with arch-supporting insoles inserted, of course), fingerless gloves, bowler hats, feathers in my hair (which I hope turns white with age. If it doesn’t, I’m totally dying it white.), a cane with a jewel on the end (and probably a concealed sword.), and to top it all off, a parrot.


During the day I will hobble out to some park and give birds crumbs and things, and train my parrot to chase them down and have aerial warfare. I will chuckle to myself and puff on my pipe. I’ll bop miscreants and n’er-do-wells behind their knees with my bejewelled cane, and if I get mugged I will have taken self-defence classes where I will have learned to use a staff, so I will bop them on the head, and menacingly draw my sword from inside my cane. They will run away once they realize I’m totally nutso.

My home will be where I have my gallery of art, and I will invite my other oldy-mouldy friends over to jam. Me and my husband will still hold hands and wink at each other, and I’ll have a cat named Tobermory, who will hate my parrot. I’ll have a cart-load of grandchildren who will adore me because I will tell the most amazing bed-time stories, and give them candies out of my carpet-bag.

I’ll be achey and arthritic, probably. And deaf to boot, I bet. Both of these things will suck. But the best thing about being old will be looking back on my life and seeing how God has woven the tapestry of coincidences and happenstances of my years into a beautiful picture.

Now does that sound so bad?

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