The Growing Up and the Growing Old
She had a strong German accent and was dressed from head to toe in a canary yellow tennis ensemble. Pete and I were standing in line at the local YMCA near our favorite vacation spot. For the last few years he and I try to get away for some quiet time to rest and recharge our batteries - McBean style. This means working out, paddle boarding, kayaking, foosball, walking, ping pong, etc. The 'etc.' also includes tennis, once we found a local Y that would give us guest privileges to use their courts. Hence, standing in line. Although the Y may be small and intimate, the red tape to get through the door and onto the courts is not.
As we shift from foot-to-foot, filling out forms and answering a multitude of questions, up comes the canary clad lady. The front desk clerk, a cheery woman who helps us get into the inner sanctum every year, acknowledges her presence with an apologetic nod to us - the knuckleheads causing the hold up.
"I can wait," she says as she sizes me up. "You know, we play doubles tennis here and we are always looking for....well, you know...new people." I really do think she was working hard to not say, 'fresh meat'. We remained silent and non-committal. She was just getting warmed up.
"You know," she leans in, "I'm of a certain age. My children think I cannot order at a restaurant for myself or make my own decisions." She shrugs. "My kids are in their sixties! You'd think they'd have more pressing matters to attend to. I'm too busy with my sports and other commitments to keep them apprised of my goings and comings!"
Sixties? Her kids are in their sixties?
"My own children seem to think we're old," I nod at Pete. "They're very concerned that we take good care of ourselves in the midst of a pandemic and whatnot."
"Well, that's only reasonable," she replies briskly. "But what I take offense at is feeling....smothered."
One lovely element of receiving stories includes the opportunity to find common ground. I, refusing to share a common enemy (because it is a cheap and tawdry substitute for true connection), particularly appreciate how often, almost inevitably, we humans can find meaningful connection. Today, we connect in this moment of shared knowing. I am the age of her children, but somehow, with careful listening comes a shared experience. I have children too. And no matter the actual age, the generational divide is there. Mother and daughter. Mother and son. The elder, the younger. The growing up and the growing old.
