FOUR SCORE

I consulted Roget’s Thesaurus for synonyms of “octogenarian.” 

Here’s what I found: Old. Elderly. Mature. Hoary. Grey. Decrepit. Doddering. Drooly. Long in the tooth. Over the hill. (And they were the most complimentary of the lot.)

So here I am, 80 years old, pooh-poohing those synonyms, often thinking I’m only 59, occasionally feeling like I’m 89, definitely “mature” but doing my damndest not to dodder or drool. 

The eye doc says I’m “years away” from cataract surgery but my hearing is getting suspect. And oh, the sagging flesh … the puffy ankles …  my achy shoulder … the four score face in the bathroom mirror and those braces that do NOT make me look like a teenager. My salad days are history.

So what’s the perspective of this Rhode Island-born, New York-New Jersey bred octogenarian now living in Maine?

I wake up happy every day knowing that Mr. Wonderful and I still have most of our marbles. We might be missing an aggie or two; just ask our kids. Sometimes I refer to my grandson Miles as Max. I’ve arrived a day early for lunch with a treasured pal. I’ve totally spaced and forgotten 2 PM dentist appointments. I’ve walked into my laundry room holding a pile of damp towels and thought, “What was I going to do in here?”

My wish list still pulses but mostly when reminiscing about past trips. I want to dine again at Il Latini, the fabulous family-style restaurant in Florence just steps from the Duomo. I long to board the TGV in Paris, then gaze at endless fields of lavender en route to the Baumaniere Les Baux de Provence. I’d love to hike in the Cotswolds again on a brisk May morning and encounter a flock of baby lambs romping in the sun. Meanwhile, I am renewing my passport, thanks for the nudge.

No one reaches octogenarian status unscathed. I’ve survived a painful divorce and mourned the death of my beloved parents. I’ve watched my children’s struggles as they approach mid-age. I’ve wept at the loss of treasured pets, especially our sweet cat Molly. I accept that I’ll probably never see my byline in VANITY FAIR. I’ve rued friendships gone sour and keenly miss dear friends living a continent away or who died way too young. 

Pain and heartache frequently darkened my sunny skies.

But I learned from all that. I’m enjoying a joyous second marriage. I know Mom and Dad are in a better place, much as I loathe that phrase. Mr. W. and I plan to get a new kitty soon. I’ll keep writing. And, I’ll continue to send thoughts upward for the good health of family and friends. 

I used to think being 80 years old would feel like living in Methuselah’s shoes. These days, I look at my dear friend Ellen Fagan who turns 98 in June. She plays golf several times a week, attends Sunday church services regularly, and never misses a U-Conn women’s basketball game on TV. She is sharp as a tack, never without a smile.

Or take my great pal Bob Gunter who’s 91. He’s on the tee several times a week often scoring in the 80s. He’s constantly curious about life and makes the tastiest gravlax north of Le Bernadin in New York City.

Eighty-schmatey. BRING IT ON! I can handle.