|How can this be?|
Worse than turning 50, buying support hose (which at least I no longer need, thanks to EVLA),or hearing my doctor begin a sentence with "At your age..." was the receipt of an official document in benevolent, 14-point sans-serif type.
I went to them. Fanette, the Service Canada clerk, was twinkly as she led me though the paperwork and notarized some documents, flashing a way to go, girlfriend look when Le Duc filled in his birthdate (seven years after mine) in the spousal info field.
After being officially old-person processed, I ran an errand but found myself standing in a Mephisto store. What am I, a geriatric homing pigeon? The place was full of head to toe wash-and-wearers, one woman hauling three shopping bags stuffed from a spree at Tilley. I fled.
Home empty-handed, wondering if a martini at 2:45 pm. is somehow so wrong.
Realized I had a boiled-wool and leather jacket scooped off a sale rack last spring, just waiting for a cool fall day. Added my Diamond Jubilee scarf for succor: Her Majesty is even older.
Strode across the street to the park to check out a band playing, "real good, for free" as the Joni Mitchell song goes.
Oh right, as the song went in...1970.
I've always said I don't mind getting older; when I think of friends who are no longer here, carping seems ungrateful. But today, my government formally acknowledged my old age, and it feels so sudden, so weird.
When the first cheque hits my account in July, I'm choosing some kind of symbol of this passage, funded with a few dollars of this initial payment and also donating to the organizations who work to alleviate the diseases that claimed some of my favourite friends, whom I dearly wish were here to grow old with me.