Old Age

My mother’s phone calls to her older friends and relatives are amusingly predictable:

Mom: Hello? Hello? Helloooo? HELLOOOO? Can you hear me? Hello? Did you eat? Did you eat? Yeah, but did you eat yet? I said, did you eat? Are you eating? DID – YOU – EAT – YET?

I don’t want to get old. I used to think people were silly for not wanting to get old because, well, such is life: you get old and you die. But as I grow older, those around me do so as well and it’s quite terrifying to see the transformations. Growing old, even gracefully, is by no means pretty. What happens is, people basically rot from the inside out–and sometimes from the outside in, too. Everything rusts, slows down, decomposes, and fails. A less morbid way to put it would be, your joints hurt, your heart beats slower, your muscles turn to flab, and you die.

It’s inevitable. It’s so inevitable, in fact, that I’m starting to wonder if there’s a point in dreading it.

After leaving the supermarket with my mom tonight, we sat down on a low ledge along the pavement to wait for the bus. The sun was getting ready to set and the warm breeze blew steadily as we watched the car go by. I like sitting outside quietly during summer evenings; there’s something strangely comforting about the golden light of the setting sun.