​I’m fully aware that one old woman’s secret may not be shared with all her contemporaries. But I also know that there must be a few out there who are in agreement with some of my secrets.
     How about this one? I do not want to make new friends!
     I have a lot of friends, in fact, I have enough friends; I don’t need any more. But this is more of an age thing. I don’t want to share my life story with a new acquaintance, nor do I want to hear theirs. I don’t want the responsibility of a new friend. I don’t want is to listen or be listened to, regardless of who’s droning on.
     I know I sound negative, but that’s the way we old women sort out what we want and don’t want during our waning years. At least I am aware that I would be as boring as the one listening to me. Lucky for me, I love silence, solitude and simplicity. 

​I visit several people who are in their 90s. Old people, I call them. Sometimes I refer to them as my older friends. Both are true, but I have to laugh at myself for not putting myself in the category of old. When I’m with young people, I am old. When I am with older people, I am young. One could say that it’s all relative, and sometimes it is. But the truth is that anyone reaching toward her 80th birthday is old, even people like me who feel and look young!

     ​I took a three mile walk today. Because I have the stamina, my thoughts, as a soon to be octogenarian, drifted from my body to my emotional status.
    Here’s what popped into my head: I want fewer calendar obligations. For example, I promised to help greet and bring brownies to the church concert on Saturday. No big deal; my choice. And yet, this little ‘have-to’ feels bulky. Definitely an age thing.
     As an old woman I’m thinking that I’ll be careful next time I say yes. Hmm, will I play the age card? Can I? Dare I? Need I?
    Maybe just say, “No.” Maybe just don’t volunteer. Clear the calendar!

     I figure I ought to write some old woman secrets about traveling, since at the moment I am sitting at my favorite café in Florence enjoying a cappuccino and brioche. I guess the secret is that I don’t feel old when I travel; I board the plane and I’m energized. It’s not that I feel young, nor do I feel old; I feel ME.
When necessary I need to acknowledge I am old, but no need to let myself be completely defined by that. I have so many definitions; family member, church member, walker, reader, writer, solitary traveler…, and yes, old person.
Ah, but there is an old woman secret in this. I live more in the present moment now that I am an old woman, and that is a gift of age.

​We old women have secrets and younger folks have secrets about us. The issues of technology are especially fraught with secrets and misconceptions among the generations.
     I grew up dialing a rotary phone, driving a stick shift, listening to the Brooklyn Dodgers on a transistor radio, receiving wedding congratulations via telegram, using a tape recorder, reading an analog clock, and watching my doctor listen to me and write down what I was saying. These aren’t secrets, but if you didn’t grow up with them, they might be holding some secrets from you in the same way that computer technology is holding secrets from me. At the very least, it is a challenge for the generations to communicate about it.
      Case in point: let’s consider the medical world. On Wednesday I arrived on time for an 10:45 annual check up with my doctor and was immediately handed an Ipad and told (asked?) to update my medical history for their files. Twenty-five minutes later I handed in the Ipad and was immediately taken to the examination room.
      Yes, twenty-five minutes. No, the doctor wasn’t behind schedule. That’s what it took me to scroll down to respond to hundreds (I didn’t count) of intensely personal questions that I’d never asked before by a doctor, questions, that in my humble opinion, were certainly not necessary to ask an old woman. Thankfully, somewhere along the way I noticed each section was marked as *Required or *Not Required. Eureka! I could speed up and mark something along the lines of ‘choose not to answer’--that is, until all those required, legal, non-disclosure forms at the end.
      My comments to the nurse about the Ipad experience went on deaf ears. Instead of being an active listener and offering something along the lines of, “Yes, it is tedious,” she defended the process and need for all that information. My lovely doctor wasn’t tuned into my frustration or opinion either. She suggested that this summer she might have her teenaged daughter be in the office to help seniors “fill out” the form. “No,” I told her, “I can handle the technology, I just find the entire form is over the top.”
     There are many secrets floating around among the old and young with this story. Maybe not secrets as much as generational misunderstandings and divides. We don’t get each other; that’s the way it is. I do, however, have some secrets about life and death that I’d like to share if anyone wants to listen. I don’t want the medical world to keep me alive for as long as is medically possible.
     I’m not afraid of dying, nor am I afraid to face the death issue. As I watch all those TV ads from the pharmaceutical industry, and as I record my medical history on an Ipad, I have to wonder if the medical world can simultaneously embrace death and do all they can to save a life. Don’t get me wrong. I know that doctors participate in palliative care and hospice and that hospitals have medical ethics committees. I believe that those who work in the in health care are compassionate people.  I am aware that the intricacies  of medical insurance and the fear of lawsuits add to the complexity. But still, why as all those questions to an old lady? Maybe you have to be an old lady to even think about it.  
     Which brings me to a final secret on the topic. We old people know ageism when we see, or rather when we feel it. We don’t like it, and when we can work around it, we do. So, next time, I am going to refuse to fill in the Ipad form; instead I’ll pick up the book I’ve brought and start reading

One of the secrets of my old women secrets has two parts: I forget things and I don’t care.
Case in point: I forget what I write on this blog and so I write about it again; but I don’t care that I do this. I have little interest in reading through pass posts. I am not publishing, I’m posting.
As far as I’m concerned I love that I don’t care. I don’t care what others think about repeating an idea. Not that it matters, but I bet many of you forget what I’ve said, and if you remembered, you are just like me: you don’t care.

    I am blessed to be part of a group of long-time friends who get together to share what’s going on in our lives. The six of us are all circling eighty. Here’s the essence of my contribution to a recent email exchange.
 
Our honesty and hopefulness helps us be realistic and resilient. We each take our turn; at the moment two of us are on center stage, the rest of us with essential supporting roles.
 
Each one of us is strong. We have high P.A.—personal authority, but that doesn’t mean we don’t need each other’s support.  Although I believe that when all is said and done we are alone in this world , I also believe that we can only embrace and cherish this aloneness if we are surrounded and loved by others. (For example, I am peaceful and not lonely traveling alone because I have family and friends who love me and support and understand this long of mine.)
 
     Maybe it’s not a old woman’s secret that we need our peers. 

​Mary Oliver died yesterday. She was 83, four years old than me. Three years ago she was diagnosed with lymphoma. I don’t know if she suffered from it, but I like to think that she knew her journey was coming to an end and that she had lived the journey she had encouraged her readers to follow: determined to save the only life you could save.
    Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. Mary Oliver followed her own instructions; she told about her life throughout a life time of writing poetry. She showed us how to pay attention and be astonished.
      Mary Oliver didn’t seem to have old woman secrets; she just kept writing. She was transparent and honest. We old (and young) women will continue to learn from her. 

​    On December 30th I turned 79. I don’t feel old, and in many ways I don’t fill the usual stereotype of someone entering her 80th year. In other words, I’m healthy and active. But I feel an old woman secret creeping in, which has to do with travel.
    I’m fine going to Florence because I know the routine. As the expression goes, I could do it blind-folder, although my eyes are excellent. But flying to a new airport, renting a car and getting onto the highway, and being my own tour guide over-whelms me.
    I’m beginning to understand the attraction of tours, but I’m not interested in spending energy hooking up with them. Plus, and here’s another secret, tours are inherently social, and I want solitude—which is why I love traveling alone.
     Old women are happy staying at home. I don’t know if it’s a secret, but it sure is true. 

     I notice that I am not judging others as much as I used to-- pastel hair coloring, loud tourists, fancy or scruffy attire. People look and act as they do, and I am one of those people, too. In part this is one of the secret benefits I’m feeling as an old woman. It has freed me to wear my warm hat with ‘Thankful’ on its rim. Certainly not a fashion statement, but I am warm and I am not worrying that people might be thinking, “There goes an old woman.”  Who cares.