I strode into the Marriott ballroom, excited to be dressed to the nines and ready to dance the night away. All curls and sparkles, makeup thick as spackle, arms perpetually cocked in the hand-on-hip triangle that allegedly stops upper arms from waving as I wave, I hit the dance floor.
There was no move I couldn’t do, even in 3-inch silver heels. I was the queen of the ball … for half a song, after which
I limped back to my seat to change into flip-flops. I rubbed my bunions for a moment and wondered how I had gotten so old.
Later the same evening I ducked into the ladies room to freshen my makeup, and the harsh light above the mirror reminded me what I’d been able to forget in the soft light of the ballroom.
A few gray hairs glinted in the mirror, the crow’s feet around my eyes were undeniable and, if I turned my head wrong, I could definitely see the beginning of a turkey wattle forming under my chin. I did what any sensible woman would do: headed back into the dimly-lit room and dragged myself through a few more dances just to prove I still could.
I don’t mind aging, mostly. I mind that Caitlyn Jenner, posing on the cover of Vogue at age 65, has better legs than I ever did, but since Bruce Jenner on the Wheaties box in 1976 had better legs than mine then, I’m not tremendously surprised.
I try to remember not to use 77-year-old Jane Fonda or 56-year-old Madonna as yardsticks by which to measure aging well. I’ve come to realize that the main beauty secret imparted in women’s magazines is “Have money. Lots of it. Money can buy a lot of beauty.”
Since that’s not an option for me, I’ve settled for fighting back the tide at the gym, letting myself be duped into buying miraculous anti-aging wrinkle-erasing creams and not buying clothing in the juniors department.
I let myself be dragged into roller-skating or bicycling with my kids, but I’m indignant when a teachers-versus-students kickball game results in sore muscles or when my son can wrestle me to the ground and pin me with such strength that even tickling him doesn’t help me free myself.
I’m grateful that all my body parts still work, but I’m painfully aware that they don’t work as well as they used to.
Strength and beauty having for the most part eluded me, I’ve decided to focus on wisdom. Wisdom comes with age, right?
I remember with embarrassment the absolute certainty with which I marched through my 20s. I knew everything. A few decades later, I wonder at the arrogance with which I began my teaching career. As a newly-minted 21-year-old childless kindergarten teacher, I had no problem telling parents how to raise their children. I’d read books that told me exactly how to fix behavioral or academic issues and I was sure that if these parents just knuckled down and followed my advice, they’d have their kids straightened out in no time.
Today, I’m older than most of the parents of my students. I have to listen carefully to the slang and the music adopted by both my students and my own children, in case I ever need to pretend I’m young and cool.
With a few decades of teaching under my belt and a pair of nearly-raised children, I have a little more credibility. It’s easier to earn the respect and confidence of the parents than when I was only a quarter-century old.
I’m wise enough to know when to keep my mouth shut and when to share my own parenting experience. I’ve come to recognize that there are a host of childhood conditions and behaviors I have no idea how to fix.
Outside the classroom, age has taught me a few other useful lessons.
I’ve learned that driving 100 miles per hour is more foolish than brave.
I’ve learned what to say to people at funerals.
I’ve learned that most crises will pass or least become bearable.
I’ve learned to limit my swearing in public.
I’ve learned which fork to use for which course, and that the more foods I eat with tortillas, the less I have to worry about which fork to use.
I’ve learned I don’t really need to know how to swim.
I’ve discovered that beauty is fleeting and physical strength wavers. I realize that it’s inevitable that gravity works its downhill magic. The mirror doesn’t lie, but it doesn’t tell the whole truth either. If I wait long enough, I may be lucky enough to have as much wisdom as I do gray hairs, as much knowledge as wrinkles.
In the meantime, I’ll still try to dance the night away, in sensible shoes, under soft forgiving lighting.
