Quick Take:
Lookout columnist Claudia Sternbach once again shares her thoughts and humor about aging. She ponders her “inevitable ‘sell by’ date,” her “Jeopardy!” weaknesses (Tik Tok for $600, anyone?) and how many men she has known in the “biblical sense” who are no longer living. “How am I supposed to feel about these romantic figures from my past at this late date?” she asks. She admits she is too old to have played with Barbie, but finds solace in the relationships that shaped her life.
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Of course I know time is passing. It’s just how much time that surprises me. And how fast. And what that may mean in my life, in my willingness to accept signs of approaching that inevitable “sell by” date.
Let’s explore.
The other evening, my husband, Michael, and I were watching “Jeopardy!” as we do every night. That right there might be a sign of getting up there in age.
We are both equally sad when the weekend arrives and there will be no new episodes to entertain and educate us. Each night, we play along and have come to realize that we know nothing about the latest music. We also are babes lost in the woods when it comes to questions about popular apps like Twitter, TikTok, Snapchat, etc.
If we were younger, we might care. But one of the gifts of aging is that neither one of us does care.
We both, while playing along, are much better with questions about Civil War history, even though we ARE too young to have lived through the Big Disagreement. I am eight years Michael’s senior, so once in a while he does imagine I have more experience with things historical than I do.
Yes, I was around for the moon landing. No, I wasn’t around when Eratosthenes, a Greek mathematician, proved the Earth was round 2,000 years ago.
The other evening, after a fairly good showing as we tried to answer the more difficult questions, we congratulated each other and then moved on to our second regularly scheduled event of the evening: “Antiques Roadshow” on PBS. That, too, might be telling when trying to convince oneself that one is still fresh as a daisy.
I was watching as a woman presented a large ceramic pot for evaluation, and my mind wandered as it tends to once we are enjoying other people’s treasures being examined. I began to try to count, as one does, how many men I have dated — and I mean in the biblical sense — in my life. Michael and I have been together for 40 years, so I had to reach way to the back of my cluttered mental closet.
It isn’t as though there were dozens, and I might have forgotten one or two (please, if you are one of the gentlemen missing in action, know it has nothing to do with your performance). But, as I began to list them, I realized more of them were dead than alive.
I’ll tell you how I felt. I wanted to speak to them, each one. I wanted to ask what it had meant. I wanted to tell these ghosts from my past that I had no regrets. That I remembered them with fondness. That we had been young and sometimes foolish, but I was grateful for all of it.
Turning back to the show, my attention focused on a middle-aged man who (speaking of the Civil War) had brought in a prosthetic arm which had been created for a Civil War soldier after he lost his own. Now, that is something quite special, but not really my cup of tea. So I let my mind wander off once again.
How could it come to this? That I am old enough to have dead boyfriends? To have a dead ex-husband? Is this normal? Do my friends also have former playmates pushing up marigolds or scattered over the sea?
Men or women who are as dead now as that Civil War soldier with the impressive replacement arm? Men or women whose lips we have kissed? And how am I supposed to feel about these romantic figures from my past at this late date?
I’ll tell you how I felt. I wanted to speak to them, each one. I wanted to ask what it had meant. I wanted to tell these ghosts from my past that I had no regrets. That I remembered them with fondness. That we had been young and sometimes foolish, but I was grateful for all of it.
Somehow it had all led to Michael.
Next, a woman who had brought an original Barbie along with Barbie’s original little purse and teeny-tiny shoes and bathing suit. Michael asked me if I had played with the wasp-waist doll when I was a girl. I had to confess that I was too old for them.
When Barbie came along, I had already put away my childish things. My younger cousin had one and also had a Ken doll. I recall her wanting me to play them with her. The clothes were too difficult to put on, and forget about the tortuous high heels. I was too old for this.
But I do remember placing them both into a shoe box together, butt-naked, and popping on the lid and wondering if perhaps a Barbie/Ken baby would be the result. And now, here was a woman getting an estimate on a doll I am too old to have played with and showing it on “Antiques Roadshow.” And it has value. Oy.
A man with wispy white hair was interviewed next. He had with him a relative’s portrait painted in the 18th century. It was rather dark and somber, but impressive. A distinguished-looking gentleman wearing a richly colored, deep green jacket with a startlingly white shirt collar peeking out.
He was handsome. He looked vaguely familiar, so I looked closer, relieved to confirm to my husband that no, the subject of this painting and I had never been romantically involved.
Losing people is the price we pay for still being allowed to walk the earth. But in remembering them they continue to be a part of my life. Their ghosts keep me company as I carry on.