Has this ever happened to you? You’re in a restaurant. Near you is another table with three couples.
You unconsciously absorb the physical details of the six well-dressed people who are about to eat their appetizers. You notice the gray hair on the partially bald men, the obviously chemically treated hair of the women, the flashlights on the iPhones to help illuminate the menu when reading glasses aren’t enough.
And yes, those are hearing aids snugly tucked behind at least three pairs of ears. Your conclusion? Boy, there’s sure a lot of old people in this place!
However, the fly on the wall tells you that the woman on the left is celebrating her birthday tonight. And she’s a whole year younger than you. Wow, she should take better care of herself!
The question is, how accurately do we see ourselves? In public places I frequently find myself scrutinizing people I consider “older,” trying to determine their ages.
Funny how I consistently conclude that they must be at least ten years my senior.
With each passing year, reconciling my chronological age with the “me” that exists inside my head, is becoming more and more challenging. The person that lives behind my face cannot possibly be related to that D.O.B. I just inscribed on the doctor’s intake form!
While I can’t pinpoint at precisely which decade my self-view became arrested, I can assure you that my alter ego is, in fact, still paying full price for a movie ticket. And that lovely 21-year-old woman calling for “Grandma” can’t possibly mean me.
And photographs? I admit that I’ve grown more camera-shy. The person living inside my head is not always happy to be mistaken for the woman in the picture.
I know that men can have a similar reaction. My husband, for example, is frequently alarmed by his captured image, and can be heard to mutter “Who’s that old man?”
So, do I really want to know how the rest of the world views me, or continue to exist in the bubble labeled “You’re as young as you feel?” And except for the forty-five minutes it takes me to recover from night-time stiffness, fortunately, I feel pretty good.
But the illusion is not fool proof. Despite my personal inner life, the world continually presents a series of reality checks.
The cashier behind the ticket window never asks me for proof of age when I say, “one senior, please.” Young men have occasionally offered me a seat on a crowded bus. I don’t require it, but I accept. Pride is one thing, comfort quite another.
The bagger in the supermarket offers to help me load my cart full of groceries into my car. I flex my muscles and tell him I’ll be fine, thank you.
Despite considering myself to be a confident woman with more serious values, I have a sneaky feeling that this duel between perception and reality will go on. And I will continue to derive pleasure and satisfaction to hear from someone who has just learned my age “Oh, I’m shocked. You certainly don’t look it!”
Not like those other guys. You know, the ones in the restaurant.
