for RDS
Now that I’ve turned in
forms to enroll in Medicare
and received the little red
and blue card with my
official number,
and I’m 54 days from my
65th birthday, happily retired
from the day job for two years,
and I worked out today with
the exercise queen for older gals
and yesterday with my almost
92-year-old mother at the women’s
gym place with purple machines
amid a distinctly not-young bunch,
and the teenager at the sandwich
place, without asking, automatically
applied a senior discount to my lunch
(it’s the gray hair, right?)—
Does this make me old?
If so, fine. I happily accept the old
fart discount, and nod sagely with
elder wisdom when younger folks
call me “ma’am.’
If not, how will I know when
I’m officially an old lady?
Oh, right—I’m your OL, as you’re
fond of saying, a phrase of endearment
you’ve teased this ardent feminist
with for years, as if you were a crusty
hippie or biker dude ready to head out
on his Harley, his OL behind him
on the thundering steed.
Give me the eagle-studded leather
jacket, shiny black helmet with
retractable sun shield, and
let us roar onto the open road—
or whatever adventures await
two, yes, oldsters, in a Honda Civic
overfilled with extra pillows and too
many snacks and comfy shoes that
carry us, upright and striding into
the world for as long as we possibly
can—
amene.