The old woman stared back uncompromisingly. Wrinkles deepened as her forehead furrowed over her non-existent eyebrows. The tiredness lifted momentarily from eyes that crinkled in defiance. Then the shoulders shrugged and she turned away.
“Oh well, what’s new. I’ve been staring at that face for several years now, hoping to find some faint evidence of – not looking old. I should give up, don’t you think?” The mirror was definitely her enemy. Why did she even bother to look at it? Anita felt the frustration of Snow White’s stepmother. She sighed and walked out of the washroom. She had gotten into the habit of talking to herself – in her head, of course.
The beep of the appointment reminder brought her self-pitying to an abrupt stop. Anita reached for her phone and tapped it shut. She had better hurry, or she would be late for her coffee date with Veera. She pulled a dress over her head, ran a brush a couple of times over her hair, and penciled over her eyebrows. Just yesterday these very brows had been impossibly bushy, almost meeting over her nose. While she was not looking, they had depleted to virtual nothingness. No time to line the eyes – she would have to risk Veera’s remarks about looking exhausted.
“Hi there!” Anita’s searching gaze followed the voice and spotted Veera at the other end of the food court. Shiny black hair, slim figure, confident smile. How does she look so young? Surely Veera was the same age as herself, if not older.
“Hi Veera, sorry I’m late.” Anita smiled apologetically as she drew up a chair at Veera’s table.
“You’re not late, I just got here early.” Veera stood up to plant a quick kiss on Anita’s cheek, then stepped back and beamed. “You’re looking good. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing much, really. And you?”
“I’m good. A little busy.” Veera sat back and smiled as though she had a delightful secret. To Anita’s questioning look, she replied, “My short story has just been accepted for publication.”
“That’s wonderful news!” Veera was so good at everything! Anita couldn’t help sound happy for her friend, even as she felt a twinge of envy. She herself was not a writer – she preferred to paint, though she could barely put aside time for it. Where did Veera find the time to write? Looking at her friend’s happy expression, Anita chided herself for being silly. It was her own fault for not making time for what she wanted to do. She just got caught up in getting through the daily routine – breakfast, lunch prep, groceries, a little exercise – and before she realized it, the day was done.
“… and the acceptance email said my story is very original …” Veera was prattling on. The excitement in her friend’s voice brought Anita back to the present. She made a mental note to sign up for the next available oil painting class, then responded to Veera with encouraging prompts.
Twenty minutes later, Veera finally paused. “I’m sorry I’ve been going on and on.” She glanced at her Fitbit. “Oh oh. I didn’t realize it was so late! My writing group’s meeting for lunch.” She stood up, collected her handbag, and shot Anita a parting smile. “Let’s get together again, soon. This was great.” And she rushed off, surefooted in high heels.
Anita sighed and stood up gingerly as her back protested in pain. She had an appointment to keep too. At her doctor’s. She hobbled to the escalator. Lately she had had challenges with her mobility, with her joints creaking like unoiled machines. Wasn’t it too early in life to have trouble walking? Was 69 too early to be affected by the aches and pains of the old? She was still hoping that tomorrow the pain will go away. Still assuming that her limp was temporary – she just had to exercise more and remember to stand up straight. According to her doctor, she just had to manage it: in other words, the pain was here to stay.
“Excuse me.” Anita stepped to the side as a young man skipped past down the escalator stairs. Her gaze followed him with admiration and envy, wishing she could run down like that. Twenty years back, she would have considered it. Not anymore – she couldn’t risk breaking her brittle bones. She would be 70 next month.
Seventy, wow. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a steep cliff, rocking on her heels, the possibility of falling over very real. “70” was – old? Or was it the new 50? Wasn’t 50 old, not so long ago?
Back home, Anita made herself a big cup of coffee and stretched out on the sofa with her favourite magazine. It felt good to be retired! To be able to do whatever she fancied, at her own pace. Hmm. Her pace had slowed down considerably since she retired. Was it that she had endless time, or was it her age?
The landline began to ring. Anita went up to it and checked call display. An unknown number. Should she pick it up? Her hand went automatically to the receiver. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, how are you today?” Oh dear, another cold call wanting her to part with her money. Habitual politeness prevailed. “I’m fine, but what is this call about?”
“Ma’am, we’re a market research company looking into the buying preferences of Canadians. Would you help us with ten minutes of your time?”
Anita paused. She should just say no. But she did have the time! She could help them. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Thank you.” The voice on the other end sounded genuinely happy as he cleared his throat. “We have a few preliminary questions. First, please tell me which of the following age groups you belong to: twenty-five to thirty-five, thirty-five to forty-five, forty-five to fifty-five, fifty-five to sixty-five, or sixty-five and over?”
“The last one.” It made her feel old just to say it.
There was a half-second pause. “Thank you, but we have filled our quota for that category. Thanks very much for your time.”
Is he putting the phone down on me? Anita’s initial surprise turned quickly into anger. How dare they! And how dare they club everyone over 65 in one blurry group – was a 65-year old the same as an 85-year old? When would they wake up to the reality that several people are living beyond 90? She sighed and went back to the sofa, her mind racing ahead on the subject of her age, the magazine forgotten. Her 70th birthday loomed like a Damocles sword. How much more time did she have, really? Ten years? Fifteen?
The previous ten years seemed to have flown by. 2008 was just yesterday! But then, not really. In 2008 she had been working, and retirement was a distant speck on the horizon. She was a new mother-in-law in 2008, but not a grandma yet. Her dad was still alive, they had all gathered to celebrate his 90th. Lots had happened, indeed. Looking ahead, perhaps ten years was a fair chunk of time to get things done. But she had better get on with it – there may not be another ten after that.
And then what?
Out of nowhere, her neighbour’s face floated in. Sarah had passed away suddenly last week. Their group of friends were still in shock – she had been Anita’s age. Of course, she had had a serious heart condition. But they had all gone out to dinner the day before. Where was Sarah now? Curiosity nudged fear aside. What happened to you when you die? Nothingness was inconceivable. The physical body deteriorating was one thing, but what about our thinking selves? Our minds are constantly a-buzz with ideas, memories, plans. Were these just finite neurons? Do we somehow morph into another world? It was a reassuring thought. Anita decided she would hold onto the belief of the spirit living on, rather than the alternative of becoming mere dust.
Then her eyes focused on the kitchen table. She had better start prepping dinner – the grandkids were coming over this evening.
It was good to be alive.
2019