The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

 

Does anyone remember spaghetti westerns? I do, but I don't know why I watched them with some glee. Maybe the bad dubbing was amusing, the odd soundtrack caught my ear, or was it the wanton violence that drew me in from a young age (I'm an avid John Wick fan - although I always skip over the part where the puppy dies - so make of that what you will). Still, I didn't just watch them sitting with my dad. I would actually watch them by myself sometimes. Do I remember anything about them other than they featured Clint Eastwood scowling and a lot of gunfights? Nope. But that's okay because this isn't a post about B-level westerns. It's about life past 60, which is good, bad, and sometimes ugly.

Let's look at it backward. I'll start with the Ugly. I've talked about a lot of this: the facial lines might be where you think I'd start, but I wonder if some lines are a bad thing. Is that weird, ladies? I don't want too many, but some evidence that I'm a natural person who has seen real life is not that bad. And I'm afraid of bad plastic surgery. I think that's worse than letting your face show some experience. I spotted a blonde woman sitting on the glass at one of the Florida Panther's games during the playoffs. The camera just glanced at her, but I could immediately tell she'd had work done. To me, that's distracting. Suddenly I'm not paying attention to the real you, I'm preoccupied by the alterations. I don't want others to assess me that way. At the same time, I don't want to look like Valerie in The Princess Bride either. A nice in-between is just fine by me.

But, hypocritical as it might be, I would gladly do some cosmetic work to get rid of the weird river map on my right leg. I featured that last summer, and a year later, it's better actually, but still there, so I assume it's with me for life, and I'd prefer that instead, it takes a hike. The one bulging vein on that leg actually hurts on occasion and is truly a definition of ugly. (And did I remember to ask my doctor about it? Nope.) Then there's the fact that going braless is off the table. My arms take work to stay toned (and are not currently). Tummy control? Ugh, more like tummy-out-of-control. I bemoan a lot that I never thought twice about twenty years ago. Such is the march of time.

But then there's the Bad, which outweighs the ugly. By the time you hit your 60s, I am willing to bet you've seen some shit, and life has handed you some raw and painful deals. I don't care if you're rich (ask Jessica Biel how her last few months have been going after her husband decided to bring Stupid back) or poor; you don't get here without realizing life is both unfair and cruel. The question is, what should we do with that information? It can inspire you, or it can break you. Or, if you're like me, it depends on the day. But if you're still standing, which if you're reading this, you are, so I'm betting you went the inspired route.

As I'm finding out, falling into the Bad category is the fact that no matter how healthy a lifestyle you try to lead, your body may have some other ideas about your health. From small issues to large - the temples that house us sometimes have shaky foundations. I suppose that is true no matter our age. Cancer can strike at any point, just to name one evil doer. In my case, I was recently diagnosed with hyperparathyroidism. Which is a total mouthful, to name one problem. But, while it's minor surgery to correct, it'll mean I'll go under the knife soon for the first time since I was three and had my tonsils out. Was it anything I did? No. Just a thing that I've lived long enough to hit the odds of it happening - or something happening anyway. I'm guessing there will be more. Like eye floaters. You can say you don't want them, but they seem to want you.

But there's also good. There's something to be said about leaving youth, with its inexperience and self-doubt, behind. I don't think we are as fiery about things as we once were, although I suppose it's unfair to speak for others, and there are some of us (the Republican Presidential nominee springs to mind) that prove the opposite, to be sure. But in general, I think our youthful tempers seem to be balanced out by a level of maturity.  Some might see that as the death of passion or idealism, but that fire burned hot. I prefer the simmer it runs at now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still passionate about some things, but I think it's more focused and hopefully intelligently directed now. 

I like that I've accepted my age. I can embrace telling you I'm a grandmother; you can look at me and guess it anyway, so why shy away? Gone are the days when I felt like I needed to act older to get that job or promotion, but then later, required to act younger to avoid getting lost in the influx of young ups and comers. Have you ever noticed we were never the exact right age? It was exhausting.

And of course, I like getting a discount at the movies. 

I could go on, but the point is that it's not all bad to be a Golden Girl. Or Boy. So, here we all are: living our very own spaghetti western. Maybe we're not going to win an Oscar for it, but hey, it can be oddly entertaining.

The Roads We Should Have Traveled

I crossed vet school off the career list in 5th grade. A friend of mine hurt her knee pretty badly on the gravel in the playground after school. When I saw it, the image is still pretty clear to this day, all bloody and full of ground in dirt and gravel my stomach did a little backflip, and that was the end of telling all my parents' friends I would be a vet when they patronizingly asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. No one ever told me, and I never once considered, that there are other ways to be involved with animals for a living without being a vet. I had other passions, and I decided to pursue those. Do I do any of them for a living now, either? That's a no. I work in property management. Do I want to work in property management? Did I ever? Also, a no. No one - and I mean no one - grows up thinking, "One day, I want to enforce deed restrictions for a living." Now, some of us have found it fulfilling. I found a family with the people I've worked with and whom I work with now, but the job itself? Honestly, shoveling elephant shit would be more rewarding.

So, a while back, after a pretty rough period, I thought about said elephant shit and decided, "Well, let's put my theory to the test and see what kinds of opportunities there are out there to do just that." And, as it happens, the Pittsburgh Zoo and Aquarium runs an International Conservation Center where they house and care for a number (five currently) African elephants not too far from here - close enough to drive in for games and, as luck would have it, they had openings. When I read about them, I thought my dream job was about to be mine. Until I read the requirements, a BS in Animal Husbandry was a requisite. Next, I looked to see if they had any openings at the local zoo, which was very, very close to my house. They did, but - you guessed it - if you want to get up and close with the animals and actually "handle" them (including shoveling their shit), you need that degree.

And that's when I knew. I fucked up. All my life, I've surrounded myself with animals. Domestic and wild. I had deer who responded to me when I called them by name. Total strangers came up to me and deposited animals in my care because my reputation was that I would do it and know what to do (erroneously, but that's how urban myths are made). It was right there screaming at me all these years: I was put here to care for animals. Their welfare, I do firmly believe, is our welfare. Sure I've always had rescue dogs and sure I volunteered at shelters, but I could have made this my calling. I could have kept the roof over our heads by doing something that helped the planet instead of telling people to mow their yards.

Could I do it now? I looked into it and did some fast math: it was a losing proposition. I would never earn enough in the limited years I could do such a physical job to make the expenditure worthwhile. The other day, I decided I didn't care; I was doing it anyway. I was going back to school to earn a completely different degree than anything I studied initially—a degree, I should add, that is heavy on chemistry—my Kryptonite.  And if I never really earned it back, oh well. I applied and got accepted to a middling school where I could get the entire degree online (Penn State, where I would love to go, is a lot harder to get into and requires the last year to be on campus.) My husband was on board until I told him the cost. Then, he not only got off the boat, he jumped overboard. Next, I researched grants and aid money for seniors. It's out there, but it all starts with the FAFSA. I started filling it out and realized that the tax return they wanted was a good year for us - I could only imagine being laughed out of the program asking for aid under the circumstances. Turns out my husband jumped off a sinking ship.

So here I sit, on the eve of Independence Day, wondering if I have wasted my life and if I will have the opportunity to somehow set karma right. And feeling pretty guilty about it. I know full well there are people in Ukraine and Gaza just fighting to survive another day, and I dare worry I made a good living doing the wrong thing?! And what does that say about all the good people I know who do what I do for a living? How dare I question it as a vocation. Yet, here I sit...

The moral of this story is that the bitch of getting older is that the old saying, "It's never too late," is a damn lie.  There are doors that are closing. I often wonder if this whole blog is a morality tale that I hope my grandchildren will find someday and heed as worldly advice. If so, here's some: know who you are and - more importantly - why you are, and then be true to it from the beginning.  But if you get lost in the chaos of just trying to live, then at some point, try to find a way to realize your true calling and don't give up on it.

I hope I find mine.