Old Age part 4--Laying down the sabre of personal rectitude

Everyone is born with a certain personality.  As a psychologist I know you can trim the neurotic edges, and make them more adaptable, but you never change them. Whatever personality type they exhibited in their first year-- they will have for the rest of their lives. Therapy can transform people's functionality and perception of self but not their personalities.

Many of us who were given the argumentative type of personality have tried to quell it over the years. Usually there is a lot of pressure to, as my mother said, "tone it down." She repeatedly said, "So you are right, it doesn't matter, just get along. It doesn't matter in the long run."   What planet was she from?

Because hyperactive and other labels weren't  common parlance in the 1950's I was just called "busy, bossy and Irish." All Irish people know the joke, What is  Irish Alzheimer's? You forget everything but the grudges. In my Catholic school everyone was given a nickname. Usually it was a saint we had all prayed to.  for example-- Some forgiving kind boy was called St. Francis.  I, however, defied the saint category and was called Perry Mason (a defence attorney in a 1950's  T.V. courtroom drama) even by the principal.  I used to raise my hand, walk to the front of the class and, with arms behind me, outline why the rules in the playground should be more equitable. (You get the picture.)

I think people are given personalities from somewhere-- God alone, knows where, and then humans develop traits to augment their personality's effectiveness. I have always been really good at arguing. I have a good memory and am good on my feet. I like to organize facts and present them cogently.  Before I went to school, I lined up my dolls to listen to my rules for my swing set. 

This got me nowhere in Catholic school. When I argued about free will (a philosophical enigma I thought I'd solved) I was dubbed a "Doubting Thomas." If I got really inflamed over, say, unfair privileges of the older grade fives, I was called a devil or told to take my forked tongue and slither back to the garden of Eden.

However, by the time I hit high school (no longer Catholic -- we'd had a non-amicable parting of the ways), my methodical recall, clear outline of facts, plus my forceful presentation were admired by some. In fact, I was on the debating team in high school and university. 

That kind of forceful personality works wonders in the workplace as no one wants to go against you, but it can wreak havoc in your personal life. You can outline a totally rational, lengthy argument to your children, and they say things like "I don't care." You can do the same with your husband and he, like Kellyanne Conway, said during a Meet the Press interview, "I have alternative facts."

As the years spin by you realize that holding grudges and spewing facts was not gaining me family peace or personal equanimity. You could win the argument, but lose the war. Plus, grudges take up a huge amount of memory storage that could be more effectively used. 

Therefore, in my forties and fifties, I made all kinds of efforts to change my basic personality style from angry fact spewer (everyone said I was born to be a litigator) to warm acceptor.  I read books from The dance of Anger to Hannah Arendt's The Origin of Totalitarianism, took courses, tried meditation, yoga, and even a Chinese Herbalist.  Nothing worked. Why? : Several reasons. My personality was cut in stone and I was good at it. Cutting through another person's argument with facts and a bit of humour was my raison d'être. Sometimes I would come home very cheerful and my husband would actually say, "Who did you fight with today?"  It is hard to give up something that you enjoy and gives you an endorphin high. 

The one thing that changed me or trimmed my edges was old age.  I was knocked off my pedestal in my seventies. I was no longer so perfect at the art of verbal defence.  I didn't always have facts at my fingertips. I would have to search my brain and sometimes that information would not pop into my head until hours after the debate.  I had lost my sword. Instant recall requires a non-aging memory. Humour takes spontaneity and if you know what you want to say and it is funny, it has to be recalled and said in exactly the right moment. There is a lot that goes into a funny story and slow recall ruins the joke. Split-timing  is the backbone of humour.

So what is there left to do when your major defences, instant recall and humour are compromised? You have no choice. You have to become a different, nicer person, one who listens to others instead of mustering their own opinions. It is amazing what a good listener you can become, if you are not organizing your own argument in your head while they are speaking. 

Parenting, grand-parenting, and marriage are easier since there is nothing to argue about. They say how they want to do things and I agree. It is too hard and fraught with mishap to argue. When a friend tells me something she has done, instead of saying what's wrong with her idiotic decision, I say, "That's what you needed to do. I get it." and I really did get it. Facts are over rated.

I was recently at a funeral of a friend and ran into someone I used to know twenty years ago and I'd forgotten why we lost touch.  I was so happy to see her and we chatted amiably for a long time and agreed to get together. On my way home my husband said he was so happy to see my talking to my old friend and not holding a grudge. He said the "old you" would have cut her dead after she said that rubbish about your memoir."  

I was enraged. I yelled , "Oh my God, I  forgot she did that. I'll never speak to her again." but I'll probably forget and resume the friendship. The deficits  of old age has forced me to drop my sabre. The "collateral damage" is I am a happier, nicer person.

 

old age part 3 -- a free agent

Although each aspect of old age has it downsides, it  has some major upsides. The best feature by far is  being a free agent. That feature  is  pure Nirvana. You are no longer a machine with parts, you are a complete human.  You are no longer just "tits and ass". You no longer have raging hormones controlling you like your period or PMS or menopause. You no longer have to reproduce and all that is involved with it.  You no longer are on the front line of motherhood-- remember when you felt guilty if you weren't actively parenting? Remember when you came last, after work  ( the deadlines), parenting, (organizing the birthday parties) and being a wife (going to his annual Christmas party, or worse--having to have it.)

 You don’t have to worry about marriage or divorce. That is now a done deal—one way or the other. You no longer have to raise teenagers. You have put in your time with soccer teams, school projects, and hoping that the kids will become solid citizens, or at least self-sufficient. You no longer have to work (in most cases) and have to answer to a boss or the market. 

You don’t even  have to make dinner. If you want popcorn for dinner you can have it. If you have a husband he can share the bowl.  After unending years of responsibility, you are now a free agent.  Bob Dylan’s famous song, Gotta Serve Somebody, should be revised to exclude old people.

You might be a rock ’n’ roll addict prancing on the stage

 You might have drugs at your command, women in a cage

 You may be a businessman or some high-degree thief

 They may call you Doctor or they may call you Chief

 But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed

 You’re gonna have to serve somebody

 Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord

 But you’re gonna have to serve somebody

 If you have your health and enough money to get by on, ( two big ifs)   you are not responsible for or to anyone. For the first time in your life – you are not going to have to serve anyone.

  

old age part 2 -- Invisibility -- pros and cons

Remember when you were young and the world noticed you – like way too much? I'm 71 and have forgotten most things, but I definitely remember construction workers whistling.  I also remember driving in the family impala convertible with the top down, radio blaring The Temptations, while my long blonde hair flowed in the breeze. I was stopped by the police at least once a month-- "just to check my license ." If you cut out the nostalgia, and really examine what was called “unwanted male attention" in the 50's and 60's, it might now be called harassment. The term didn't exist in the 50's.  It was just "men!" Or my mother would say, "He's a real skirt chaser-- so watch out!"

It's over--invisibility has set in. It started in my fifties, so beware of the transition from the forties. It takes at least a decade to set in.  Mine started when I was 51, when I overheard two construction workers in my kitchen say, "I'll bet she was somethin'."  Did he say "was"? The past tense hit me like a brick had been thrown at my aging face. Now at 71 I've settled into invisibility. I now have fully accepted that I am as invisible as Harvey the Rabbit, but it was a slow meandering journey between 50 and 70.

The other day I was in my local coffee shop that I have visited daily for years. A woman in her twenties was in front of me and the barista said, “Brittany, I missed you yesterday.” He asked plaintively as though he'd been pining, "Where were you?”  When I got to the front of the line, I said "Hi Jose.” I’ve been in Germany for four weeks but I’m back for a latte. He looked up, smiled and said, “Oh, I didn’t notice you were gone. Welcome back!” 

The scene is a lot like the scene in the often cringingly unfunny TV show, Frankie and Grace, with Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda. There is one funny scene where they are ignored by the male convenience store clerk while trying to buy cigarettes. All of his attention is diverted to an 18-year- old girl in a halter top. Eventually Grace screams that they are not invisible. Frankie extracts revenge by stealing the cigarettes, saying if she is invisible why should she pay.

When I was 60 and my invisibility was approaching the levels on the Topper show (if you get that reference you are the right demographic for this article), I was getting ready for a relative's wedding. I tried on high heels and also flats and asked my three sons which looked better. One said, “Mom, just wear what’s comfortable. No one is looking at you.” The other two nodded in sage agreement. This was 10 years ago when I was 60 so I was shocked. I didn’t know I was past looking at. It took my breath away.

 

Gradually by age 70, I had done a complete turnaround and found relief in my invisibility. I cut my hair so I didn’t need to blow it dry and let it go white, threw out my high heels, and only bought shoes that had support and were comfortable. I hate shopping so I gave it up. Now I wear hiking gear or exercise suits. With no one looking I gave up expensive cosmetics and facials. On a good day, I just wash my face and I wear makeup from the drug store – but only for major occasions. If I want dessert, I eat it.  If I get an invitation for a dinner or wedding and it says “formal attire,” I just wear what I wore to the last formal occasion, because no one will notice I am wearing it again.  I no longer feel I have something to prove. Invisibility is freeing while simultaneously being relaxing. When designer Karl Lagerfeld said "Sweatpants are a sign of defeat," I thought they were a sign of heroic independence. I was no longer dependent on Karl Lagerfeld for low cut, short shirt, high-heeled fashion advice. 

  

Invisibility also aids in relationships with the opposite sex. For example, when a man asked for directions when I was a 20-year-old 5'8" willowy blonde with waist length hair, chances are he had another agenda. It was, as Darwin said, the jungle of sexual selection. It was up to me to figure out who was a predator and who was not. It was a nerve-wracking procedure which led to tumultuous feelings swinging from  naiveté and paranoia. Now, since mating is essentially over, I have lots of male friends of all ages that I never could have had when I was young. It would have been too risky. 

Now when a man asks me for directions, I know he is actually lost.

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Old Age-Part 1 On the road with Selective Attention Deficit.

Aging can creep up on you ( see cartoon). I have been ensconced in my home writing my book,  Good Morning Monster, for the last five years-- which takes me from 66-71 years of age. As a writer, you do the same routine everyday; as long as you stay in your deeply dug groove from home to Starbucks, you don't notice any mental deterioration in your small world.   The book I was writing is about my 25 years as a psychologist.  The information I needed was not new and I could recall it as easy as falling off a log. Therefore I didn't have to contend with new learning.

Now with the book finished, Penguin said it was  time for me to go out  in the big world and market the book.  I was booked all over and I had nary a worry. I jaunted about about without a qualm because I feel I have always been 'good on my feet' .

I hit the wall on my first gig in front of over a hundred people. Old people have trouble with selective attention. It is a little like a geriatric version of ADD. When I was alone in my 3rd floor study writing with no one ever disturbing me I had no idea I was now prone to distraction-- enough to knock me off my game. I wasn't  used to it.

I was in the middle of my  new speech since this was the first stop on my media tour.  A member of the audience  was late and flounced down the aisle and collapsed in a chair in the first row.   I looked up focusing on her for a fraction of a second and then lost  track of what I was saying. This had never happened to me before in my entire life. If it did happen, I recovered before anyone noticed. Suddenly, I  had every public speakers worst nightmare. I totally lost the plot. I felt my face get hot and my heart pounded as hundreds of eyes were upon me.

A lot can go through your mind in a few seconds. I thought, I could fake it-- but it would be a stretch-- or I could confess -- a little too Catholic;  or I could make a joke-- too Chris Rock. I decided since I am a lapsed Catholic who enjoys humour-- I'd opt for honesty, humour  and draw in the audience.

I looked out at a tsunami of grey hair said, "Thank God you are mostly women of a certain age.  Where was I before the late arrival from Beelzebub?" I said  comically glaring at the late arrival.  "Remember  Hillary said, "'it takes a village'."  What would I do if you weren't here-- probably wander home in a daze and when the police stopped me I'd say I was Melania Trump." Everyone laughed and one or two people yelled out what I had been talking about. I said, "What about the rest of you? Distracted?" Everyone laughed and we moved on. It set a relaxed pace for the rest of the talk. I felt the audience was with me or as they say 'had my back'.

I came upon this solution spontaneously, but  I wanted to share it with other old people. Just be relaxed and honest. Throw in some humour if you can.  The axiom is people respond to the mood of the speaker, not the words.  If you are humiliated by memory loss, the audience will be as well. If you are relaxed and act like it is one of the routine  bumps of old age, they will feel that way as well.


 Practical Remedy
What to do about selective attention deficit ( getting distracted).? Prepare to lose your train of thought sometimes. Now when I give a speech I have the key word in each  each paragraph highlighted in yellow. I keep my finger on it till I move to the next paragraph. That way if someone interrupts me,  I have a grounding. When people from the audience ask questions and I give a long discursive answer,  I have learned  to ask before moving on to another question, "Did I answer your question?"

All old age mental deficits  have a down side, but they all have an upside.
Sure, we all agree that it can shake your confidence to have lost  some concentration. However, the upside is that I am old enough to remember things that are now historical. In the content of my talk I  describe patients I have almost half a century ago. For example,  Danny, the native patient in my book, was a  child trapper before school was mandatory. He was taken out of the Tundra to go to  Residential school.  He was my patient in the early 80's and I was able to hear first hand what happened to him when he was taken from his family. I could report details that  few people are alive to tell.  When I gave a talk to a high school they all knew of the Truth and Reconciliation commission, but were fascinated to hear my details of the past told in a present tense.

You know your old when...
 I found my 1950's childhood memoir, Too Close to the Falls, in the history section at Indigo. I informed the salesman I was still alive and perhaps he should move it to the memoir section. He looked at me and said with a certain amount of doubt. "Yup.  I guess you're still alive."