Growing Old (DIS)gracefully…

Being considered “old” or “older” is largely a matter of perspective and very much depends on who is doing the considering and how old they themselves are at the point of consideration.

That is why those in their early teens can legitimately regard a person of twenty-five as old and definitely uncool – in fact the complete opposite of hip – and how, to any self-respecting eighteen or nineteen year old, a thirty year old is practically ancient! And to many a (very) young adult, the mere existence of living breathing septuagenarians or, God forbid, octogenarians, is often considered as unequivocal proof that miracles DO exist.

Later in life, as we reach, and pass over, the accepted milestones of aging we in turn tend to push the point at which we can justifiably be considered old further and further ahead of us. We fight the aging process with all the available weapons in our arsenal and, believe you me; there are an unending and wildly varied number and range of those in store. Some more varied than others!

At some point though, we come to the startling realisation that we are considered old both by those we have birthed as well as those who have birthed us. We are admonished to ‘act and dress our age’; we are chided for not having come to terms with the fact that getting old is an inevitable ‘fact of life’, much like the sun setting and rising, and last, but by no means least, we are expected to grow old GRACEFULLY ...

Where does that leave those of us who have opted to grow old DIS-gracefully? Particularly, we who have chosen to embark on a path of rebellion against the accepted norms of society as far as being old or older is concerned. The ones that, flouting convention and flinging caution to the wind, insist on our right to continue to dance till dawn in the clubs – having been warned strongly by our nieces, nephews, and occasionally even our grandchildren, to stop calling them “discos” – always forgetting that the morning after the night before we can barely roll out of bed and almost always have to resort to a date with our trusty tube of Deep Heat.

For women of a certain age, who have chosen to grow old DIS-gracefully, and if we are fortunate enough to have retained some semblance of our girlish figures, we delight in traipsing around in the latest fashions conveniently ignoring the mutters of ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ from between the gritted teeth of our more conventionally attired age mates. We accept any and all invitations with alacrity and often view going to a funeral with the same level of heightened excitement and anticipation as we would a good friend’s party!

Another sign of growing old DIS-gracefully is not only knowing all the names of the latest artistes but also being able to name their songs … a skill that can and will win you the grudging respect of younger family members … and if you can actually sing along or, in the case of hip hop/rap, recite the lyrics, expect an immediate elevation to celebrity status. However, the downside to this is that you will be expected to perform this parlour trick whenever anyone under 21 is under your roof, and they won’t take no for an answer.

But by far the most recognizable sign that an older person has refused to even consider the option of growing old gracefully is … gasp, clutch your pearls, find an edge of a table to steady yourself … is when they choose to openly date a younger person.

From time immemorial, men of advanced years and, usually but not always, sizeable bank balances have dated women young enough to be their daughters – or in extreme cases, their grand-daughters – and though society may initially frown upon it very rarely are there any raised eyebrows for long! And why should there be when the standards were set way back in Biblical times with Solomon and his 700 wives, a few of whom must definitely have been younger than him.

Recently, I spent a very enjoyable few hours in the company of a fifty-something year old man who, over a bowl of delicious fufu and goat light soup, regaled those of us at his table with the ‘mathematical formula’ for dating a younger woman.

According to this gregarious older man, who I shall refer to as Mr K, the ideal age of a younger female partner is calculated by dividing her male partner’s age by a number that changes incrementally according to what decade he falls within but thankfully there is a caveat, this formula is only applicable past the age of forty – you will soon see why.

So, a man in his forties divides his age by 2 and voila, any female aged twenty and above is fair game, in his fifties a man needs a passing acquaintance with Basic Maths 101 because the figure of 2.5 involves a decimal point, but once he hits sixty (and retirement) he can use his fingers again because he only has to divide by 3! Maybe it was the copious amounts of fresh sweet chilled palmwine I had imbibed but, whatever influence I was under, surprisingly I saw a lot of sense in this formulaic calculation.

I have always believed in gender equality and that ‘what is good for the goose is good for the gander’ so now I realized that my attraction to tall handsome young men with chiseled abs (they wear their t-shirts so tight these days) was not an aberration at all. It was perfectly legitimate and merely the result of something akin to Pythagoras’ Theorem. And I have always been good at maths! Therefore, as a woman in her fifties it is not only acceptable, but perhaps even a moral obligation, for me to date a man whose age is neatly divisible by a single digit integer.

Now, if I could just find out just how old that intelligent and massively talented young hip hop artiste is … Suddenly, growing old DIS-gracefully is looking even more appealing.

Source: Infoboxdaily.com

By: Sara Asafu-Adjaye