He’s a 33-year-old husband, father, nuclear engineer. He’s my eldest grandson and a comment he made on a recent visit brought up some interesting thoughts on aging. Exiting a favorite restaurant that happened to be on the third floor of a building with no elevator, I said to grandson, “The arthritis in my knees makes me slow on these stairs. You could probably run down them two at a time.” He didn’t hesitate for a moment before replying. “Probably true for now, Grandma, but that won’t always be the case.”

I remember being 33, but I don’t recall being insightful enough to realize that my own aging agenda would eventually show up. Getting old wasn’t on my to do list back then and, truthfully, I struggle with it now. I often forget that I’m up there in years and don’t see that as a bad way to think. While I’m not in favor of foolish actions in old age, like tossing prescribed drugs, smoking, eating junk, buying LL Bean clothes that will outlast me by 10 years (I still occasionally succumb to Bean goodies), I do give credence to hanging on to some aspects of a youthful lifestyle. Truth is, as much as I’m easily able to write about this aging thing, I’m not ready to be old.       

As I said to my grandson, my arthritis slows me down when it comes to stairs and it’s annoying getting up from chairs, but I don’t think twice about walking fast or playing a little soccer with my youngest grandchild. I keep up with housework, and I love our local gym that I’m planning to get back to soon. I’m smart enough to realize I can’t exercise like I did 10 years ago, but I do know that I can use the same equipment at a slower, lighter pace. The gym atmosphere is a great motivator.  Being in the company of the younger, enthusiastic members keeps me challenged and encouraged to be my best self.

I still occasionally climb a ladder to change lightbulbs and reach a high kitchen shelf. Unfortunately, the ladder thing has become an issue with my youngest son. I was in the backyard playing with the dog. I threw the frisbee; he ran madly to fetch and bring it back. Forgetting my own strength (I do workout), I lobbed the disc high and, not for the first time, it landed on the roof of the house. The dog’s howling brought my son out to the yard. “His frisbee is on the roof,” I said. “He always whines pathetically until it’s back down on the ground.” Steve looked at me with a frown. “What do you mean by always, Mom, you’ve done this before?” Recognizing his concern, I played the incident down. “Oh, not very often, no worries,” I calmly replied.

Steve hoisted the ladder that happened to be right there in the yard, braced it open, and started up toward the toy in the gutter. “What do you do when this happens and I’m not here?” he asked. I wanted to answer honestly, but in a cool matter of fact way, kind of brush it off so he’d maybe drop the issue. “I do what you’re doing, just slower,” I said. I might have heard a moan of disapproval, but I can’t swear to it, my hearing’s not what it used to be.

You younger folks can help with my youthful attitude, you know. Although a lovely gesture, it’s not necessary to take my arm when crossing the street, or to help me up from my chair. That day may come, but it isn’t today. And a most important request to keep me young at heart, when you retrieve that box of rice high out of my reach on the top shelf of the grocery store, just hand it to me with a pleasant smile and be on your way. Your kindness is much appreciated, and while I realize the comment that always seems to accompany this lovely gesture is polite and respectful, it makes me feel like Methuselah. So, many thanks for helping me out with those groceries in the clouds, but please refrain from saying, “Here you go, Ma’am.”

Carole Marshall is a former newspaper columnist and feature writer for American Profile magazine. Her work has been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books. cmkstudio2@gmail.com