Fancy Vintage Car

by Linda-Marie Barrett

I crawled out of the Covid era feeling like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. I’d been active, going on daily walks and often hiking, but had abandoned any other kind of exercise. I’d tried indoor yoga classes but found wearing the required mask challenging and also isolating from my classmates. I stopped attending, and never quite developed a home practice to keep limber. Besides the creaky joints, the crepitus crunch when I twisted my spine while stretching, I was visibly older. Age had caught up with me. According to new studies, we don’t age gradually; we experience age spurts at 44 and 60. I was not surprised to read about this, as it echoed my experience. Always appearing youthful, this new burst of what the study described as “rapid physical decline” added some fuel to my already churning existential angst around mortality, finitude, death. 

I don’t concern myself much with hiding my aging. My hair is natural, I skip makeup except for the occasional application of mascara, lipstick, or tinted sunblock. I haven’t had any procedures to fill in or tighten my face. But, despite thinking I’m fairly accepting of the passage of time in my body, it’s still a wow and a wince when I look in the mirror at a certain angle, or see myself reflected in a window as I walk by, or view recent photographs when the lighting was harsh. It’s happening, I’m getting old.

This year I decided to increase the frequency of workouts to improve my fitness. I signed up for yoga and pilates classes to make sure I stretch and strengthen muscles at least three times weekly. Confession: pilates kicks my ass! I take one mat class, which features a humbling routine of planks, roll ups, and bridges involving leg lifts and toe taps. The reformer class offers its own pleasures, like jumping off a kickboard, spine stretches, leg circles, and this crazy swan move where I swear to God I couldn’t be more graceless. I’ve embraced my inner Bridget Jones awkwardness, knowing that when the instructor is calling out, “Relax the muscles in your face!” she’s talking to me, who is likely grimacing. Long gone are the days when I used to be among the best in an exercise class. Now I hope for “most improved” or “makes funny jokes during the hardest moments.” 

I’m astounded and grateful that I’ve reached this age, as others I’ve known never had the chance. Yet despite having older friends and reading countless health articles and books, I feel utterly unprepared for being old. People don’t really talk about what it’s like to be in an older body–the aches, the higher risk of injury, the longer recovery time after strenuous activity, drier skin, thinning hair, the impulse to groan when lifting out of a chair or kneeling on the floor. On the other hand, people do like to talk about rules for older bodies–what to wear, what hairstyles flatter or need to be avoided, what fashion youthens or looks ridiculous, the many backfiring ploys to come off as a younger person and instead appear desperate. I ask myself about these rules: Do I care? Who made them up?

Ageism is real. Am I too old to go after something I’ve always wanted? Am I no longer relevant in professions where I might be the oldest person in the room? Do those who might invest in my success, because it could profit them as well, wonder if the arc of my potential is nearing its endpoint? Do I internalize or project these concerns? 

One of my favorite people is 27 years older than me. He’s my Yoda, among the wisest people I know, living a full, independent life, carrying himself like a much younger person. I ask him big questions when I can slip them into conversations without it being presumptuous. I truly want to know, what’s it like to be almost 90? What does it feel like to be in a very old body?  How do you grok mortality?  When do you start counting the seasons you might have left? How many more summers? How many more birthdays? What kind of comfort do you hold in your heart when you grasp, truly, your inevitable passage from this life into the next, whatever you believe that might be? What wisdom has a long life brought that any of us could benefit from?

I have a slew of friends between my age and his. We share a common feeling: when we look out at the world, we feel young. When the world looks back at us, we feel old. I work against that feeling. I came into the fullness of my life in my fifties and seek to savor the time ahead with the spark of youth, even if I must now pay more attention to the care and feeding of me. While I once was somewhat heedless of how hard I worked my body when I lived on a farm,  how often I subsisted on little sleep or overdid it on wine or sugar, I’m now very thoughtful. In some ways, I treat myself like a fancy vintage car, only the best fuel for my body, the most nourishing creams for my skin, the closest attention to ergonomic movement and support of my limbs and my feet. It’s not a burden this care, it’s a privilege to honor the body that’s brought me this far. Perhaps this is the way I always should have treated myself, because it feels really good to be pampered. Perhaps this wisdom is a gift of getting older.

April 6, 2025