MY UNGOLDEN POND
MY UN-GOLDEN POND
By a Lady Older Than Dirt Who Knows Too Many People in This Town to Pen My Name to This Story
Photo: Paula VM
I have spent sixty whole years dreaming of my golden years, and I am here to tell you, they are a scam. A big fat scam. I thought I’d be floating around on a raft somewhere, drinking lemonade with little mint leaves in it, but nooooo. Instead, everything costs more than it should, my knees sound like a microwave full of popcorn, and my grandkids think sending me a thumbs-up emoji counts as meaningful human connection. Meanwhile, my children are “just soooo busy,” except when they’re texting me links to expensive vacation spots I should “treat myself” to. On what budget, exactly? My Social Security check? That thing has a sense of humor crueler than my ex-mother-in-law.
These days, I spend a great deal of time watching the internet in horror, shaking my head at the sheer nonsense happening in the world. I also try talking to my best friend, Becky—except, mostly, I just repeat myself to Becky. This is because she conveniently forgets just enough details to make every story feel brand new. (I suspect she does this on purpose. I respect that.) This is not the life I imagined. I pictured more adventures. Fewer doctor visits. And possibly grandchildren who called me for reasons other than needing money for new shoes or a last-minute school fundraiser.
But here I am. And you know what? I am still kicking. (Granted, it’s with a little assistance from arthritis cream and a heating pad, but still.) So I figure I have two choices. I can sit here feeling sorry for myself, or I can start figuring out what I actually like. For decades, I worked, raised kids, cooked meals, cleaned up messes, and put everyone else first. And now? Now I get to ask myself—what makes me happy?
Maybe I’ll take up painting, even if my trees end up looking like sad, green, lumpy potatoes. Maybe I’ll peruse the streets for another stray dog that needs a bath and some scrambled eggs for breakfast. Maybe I’ll flirt shamelessly with the widower who walks past my house every morning, just to see if I’ve still got it. (Spoiler alert: I do.)
There’s still time for me. Time to laugh, especially at myself. Time to love, whether that means making new friends, joining that ridiculous purple gym (insert eye-roll emoji here), or finally falling in love with my own weird, wonderful life.
This morning, I went down to the lake and thought, maybe I’ll take up morning swimming. Then I saw a fish jump and decided I need to think on that some more. But when I looked down at the water, I saw my reflection in the ripples and—would you believe it? I actually smiled.
This might not be Golden Pond, but guess what? I’m a Golden Girl in my Golden Era. And I plan to enjoy it.
The end. (For now.)
