Anonymous, Age 70
I just turned 70. Traumatic. Just reading the number 70 and what it means, thinking of all of the people I have been, of the people I have known, of the decades I lived through is sobering, frightening, a cup of ice water in the face. I lived my life as though there could be no end; falling in and out of love, living through each fad (beatnik, hippie, political activist), raising children, having the pleasure of knowing my three grandchildren, convincing my husband to move to Mexico with me, teaching English as a second language, contemplating an affair with a man 25 years younger. People are amazed by my life stories. I’m tired of telling them. I’m afraid of aging, of loosing the looks and the energetic personality I had. I’m embarrassed by my self absorbtion and the amount of money I spend on moisterizers. I’m ashamed when I read about women in my age group who are in poor health and just struggling to make ends meet. But that’s me. Who I am, for better or worse.
What is different for me at 70 is that I don’t have the energy or the passion to begin new projects or finish old ones. I feel that my life has been wasted on self indulgent pleasures, and I can’t figure out how get off that particular path. 70 is different, I feel it and see it– especially when I work with other ESL teachers who are in their 20’s and 30’s. I’m grateful to be alive, I get up early to see the sun rise, I read before I go to bed, I listen to music, I have friends. Maybe I want too much, but why do I feel so restless. Is there anything wrong in wanting more? I’m glad I stumbled on this site, these stories are wonderful to read. Bless us all.