Does Old Age Become Me?

I tossed out my rollerblades 3 years ago because of the fear of falling, and I don’t play golf as often as I used to either.   My life recently became a sedentary involvement that consisted of eating more and exercising in my dreams.   My good-intentioned daughter suggested water aerobics but my vanity couldn’t stand the idea of exposing the public to my old-aged “ickiness” or vice versa, so I discarded that idea.  Then, lo and behold, wouldn’t you know it---she gave me a membership to a fitness club.
I was beginning to feel that I’d earned my old age, out-of-shape body.  Aside from fact that my size 6 jeans didn’t fit any more, I felt that I could live with things as they were; and that second piece of cheesecake was just as delicious as the first, a rumor that I’d heard before but never truly believed!!!
Out of respect for my daughter, I put on my old-lady knickers and waddled off to the geriatric exercise class.  My first impression of the group wasn’t good.  Everyone in the class had white hair and looked old.  Never mind that my hair is white now and I’m old too---( We’re forever young in our own minds.) 
I was really tempted to make a bee line out the door during the first class but I remembered the feeling of wanting to flee another time when I went to a Mary Kay meeting with a friend and endured the song “I’ve got that Mary Kay feeling deep in my heart—“.
 I didn’t have that Mary Kay feeling deep in my heart at any time in my life, and I didn’t want to hang around geriatric exercise class to watch sagging old people exercise either.
And then, another lo and behold hit me.  That first day, as the geriatric exercise class progressed, it became increasingly obvious that many of these old people were semi-agile and quite coordinated—and I--- well, I just wasn’t either.  I couldn’t keep up with the old folks.
After class, I left with my old-lady towel in hand, realizing what I’d allowed myself to become and semi-determined to change it. 
I still don’t look forward to going to exercise classes but I go; and I’m slightly more agile and coordinated than before but I’m never going to make Letterman’s Top 10 for the fittest old people in Miami.
Geriatric exercise class has not only improved my icky-old body but it’s given me a new perspective on old people as well.
Two days ago, there were a lot of complaints prior to the class.   30 people are allowed to attend per session and evidently more than 30 had shown up.  We have to sign in each time we arrive and there was vicious rumor circulating that some didn’t use the sign-in sheet but went to class anyway.  Thus, there were too many old people in the old peoples’ exercise class that day.  Imagine the horror!
Really, imagine the horror.
This horror of horrors prompted a wave of anger among the white haired people at the gym that day, and it was a little frightening.  It seemed quite petty to me.  The pettiness took me to the next question on my mind: why do old people act so childish?
It’s true what is said about the comparisons of youth and old age.  I remember my dear Uncle Bill in his old age.  He had dementia and was often childlike, although not in the sweet enduring way that children can be.  We do seem to revert back as we age, and it’s never pretty.
One white haired woman groveled, “We’re adults.  We shouldn’t act like children.”
But we do.  And in large groups, or groups of 30 or more, anger isn’t handled very well.  Groups are good for Mob dancing, fireworks, and weddings.  They’re less useful for anger management.
Ah, but I digress.  I guess that’s another privilege afforded the young and the old.
So what’s the take-away from all this exercising and white haired observation?  
Life continues to teach us lessons no matter what our age is.
 Exercise is an oxymoron--good for us but generally unenjoyable.
Pettiness doesn’t work well with certain skin complexions or hair colors, so make sure you can wear it fashionably before buying it.
Look out for angry white haired people, particularly if there are more than 30.
Live and learn and vice versa.