The dictionary defines perspective as “a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view. A true understanding of the relative importance of things; a sense of proportion”.
It’s another way of saying that, as the 70s comes barreling down the corridor, I’m not so much concerned about purchasing a new sturdy sofa with the idea that it will last twenty years since the odds are that I will not last that long. A certain age gives one a new sense of freedom and perspective. Children live in the moment and, more and more, the thought appeals to me too. I eat more ice cream, stay up later, hang out in my bathrobe longer and I don’t just smell the flowers, I cut them and bring them into the house.
Another change in perspective has to do with my looks. At one time I was considered very good looking. I was a traffic stopper. Now the compliment that most often comes to people’s lips is that I am “looking good”, which translates to “look at you, still standing”. I don’t so much stop traffic with my looks as I do with my slow shuffle across the street. Motorists wait patiently for the old lady to make it across the road, and still stopping traffic.
Speaking of visuals, the cataract surgery, a few months ago, that promised improved vision, did just that. One moment life was a fuzzy blur, a Monet painting, now Raphaella Spence, with her crystal clear photorealistic artwork, comes to mind. This is the first time since I was 12 years old that I have perfect 20-20 vision and no longer need glasses or contact lenses. Still, I wonder why I did it. I can now see more acutely the fine wrinkles on my face. Hm, when did that forehead line arrive? And the white hair halo that appears when I am late to the hairdresser. At one time I sported a luxurious mane. Time passed and there was talk of salt and pepper hair. Now my hair is more salt than pepper. When did pepper leave the building. There isn’t as much hair either. I can see now the rose colored glasses approach had some merit, cataract surgery be damned.
Like others my age, I don’t care so much about what is going on in the big wide world. Perspective again. I am only concerned with peace in my little corner of it. At one time, yes, passions flew; everything was black or white, right or wrong, true or false. Those extremes have long since been traded for tranquility: with a lot more grey between the black and white, right sometimes is more what is left than what is right and is all that news really true. At one time I had all the answers, today some of the questions are in doubt. Does it really matter?
I am told that people of an age become more mellow or more cantankerous as the years pass. I suppose it has to do with a life well lived, or not. Fortunately, I think of myself in the former group. I laugh a lot, which perhaps may have to do with the onset of dementia, but I’m happy.
The other good thing about aging is that no one messes with an old lady. A grand old lady has gravitas; a solemnity of manner. A stern look down my aquiline nose can wither anyone under 40. I hold no truck with unauthorized questioning from whippersnappers. And, always to my utter astonishment, I get away with it.
Thinking on it, how many moments can I have left, when more than half of my old friends are already dead. I learned that there are only four ways to die: murder, suicide, accident or illness. Some friends dealt with horrible illnesses, while a couple of them took themselves out. The reason for doing so doesn’t matter. Maybe they just felt that it was time to leave. Anthony Boudain, for instance, had traveled the world, written a few well received books, met everyone who was anyone, ate in exotic locales, stayed in grand hotels, lived a full and very interesting life. What was left but more of the same; maybe he just was done. Last year a dear friend decided that she had had enough; dementia was setting in, so she literally willed herself to die. She was done with this world. There are others who would disagree, of course. Someone said that if life was so bad for a person to consider suicide, then that was the time to hang around, because life could only get better. Perspective again; how much is too much, how much is enough.
My last bit of perspective on life? The world is no longer ours; the moment has passed. Life belongs to the next generation. Good luck.
