When I Am Old I Will Wear Vests

So, I guess I have moved past the category of being middle age to just plain old.   

In the last weeks I’ve come across several things that tell me 60 is the number where someone is officially in the aging population (although when you think about it, everyone is aging. Even a three year old).

In our morning Bible reading I read the chapter about the church being instructed to take care of “widows indeed.” The criteria for assistance, the widows needed to be over 60. Younger than that and a gal could make her own way, which in biblical times was by marrying and keeping house (I’m not against that by the way, I like being married and keeping house). In those times marriage was your retirement safety net—thus, the need for the church to step in to help widows who didn’t have the financial means to provide for themselves. (There, that’s the Bible lesson for today.)

Also this morning our pastor made an announcement that the group for seniors was going to have their last get-together for the year. The group is called Senior METS and is for adults 60+ who Meet, Eat, Travel and Serve. They don’t mention it, but I also know Pickle Ball is involved. Cool. I’m joining.

Last month I turned 61. Geez that does sound old. I don’t feel that old. I can still walk several miles at a brisk pace, that’s something. But, I do feel a very, oh-so-subtle shift that gives me clues to what’s to come.

For one, I use hand rails. I do not remember using hand rails in my 40s or even in my 50s. But now I can’t take chances. I don’t want to break a hip. And, I drive carefully. My reflexes aren’t as quick as they used to be. I’m watching out for those pedestrians. (Like did I not notice pedestrians before?) I just don’t want to make the feature article in the newspaper: “Elderly woman mows down three on Broadway during lunch hour.”

Another thing: I put out bird seed. Did I do this before I was closing in on 60? Never. Bird watching was definitely an old person’s pastime. I’ve discovered it to be a quite pleasant and enjoyable activity, with no physical exertion involved, I might add.

The final thing I’m going to mention here is I’ve taken to wearing vests. I never understood why women of a certain age wore puffy vests. Were they that cold, really? I mean puffy vests are essentially sleeveless winter coats that are worn inside. You’re going to be an ice cube if you stand outside in the middle of January in your little vest, and your back will be perspiring if you’re wearing a vest inside at an art craft sale.

Well, I bought my first vest yesterday. And, it wasn’t to make a fashion statement. I have been having a dickens of a time finding tops that work for me. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have tops made for women of a certain age and girth. I want coverage man, and all I can find is scooped necked clinging jersey.  I have searched high and low, believe me. I have a closet full of shirts that ain’t working for me.

Yesterday I stopped in at Magnolia’s Cottage, a little clothing boutique in Plainview, to shop their 25 percent off sale. After feeling very disheartened trying on shirts in the dressing room, I gave in. I tried on a puffy vest. I get it now. This lovely covers my tush and zips right up to my chin. I love it. I’m going to get one in every color and be rocking the puffy vest look year round.

Does this post have anything to do with anticipatory grief? No. No, it doesn’t. Other than possibly I have a lot of time at home to think up subjects to write about.

On Dave, he’s doing okay. We had a lovely Thanksgiving at Amber and Paul’s. Our kids made it easy on me. All I had to do was make the cranberry salad. See, there are a lot of advantages this side of 60. Your kids take pity on you and start taking over. God bless ‘em.

THE COMMUTE

We live on the edge of town. If I time my walk right, I can witness the sun setting over fields without the obstruction of roof tops.

Last night I soaked in the blazing colors of red, yellow and orange in one part of the sky while the moon was already visible on the other side of the still-blue sky. I walked far enough that I could see car headlights stream over the hill as commuters made their way home from work.

I’ve been retired for a year. I remember leaving and coming home in the dark. If I had an early shift, I could sometimes catch the last rays of daylight, but often I was on auto-pilot. Hundreds—maybe thousands?—of days I made the same trip. I tried to be mindful of sunrises and sunsets, and I'd spend time with God, reciting Scripture, praying and trying to listen for His voice. But often I’d be thinking of what I had to do. After work I needed to stop at the store, pick up kids from practice, make dinner, go to a choir concert, take out the trash.

Often, the question is posed what would you do if you knew this was your last day on earth. Truthfully, you might not do anything different. You’d wake up in the morning, drink coffee, pray, go about your daily tasks, and get ready for bed at night. But, I can guarantee you’d notice everything about that day.

The sun rising and setting and the blanket of stars at night. The voices of kids playing in the street and the sound of farmers in the fields harvesting fall crops. Every I-love-you and hug exchanged with kids and grandchildren. A good cup of coffee. Conversations with friends. The sense that God is with you and you will soon be in His presence forever.

As Christians, we seem to get the idea that we should be doing something more. That what we’re doing isn’t enough. You know what? It’s not about the doing. It’s about being. Being mindful of His presence throughout every day. He is with us, right here, right now, even in the mundane. And, in the end, none of it's mundane.