The New Old Age Blog: What, Me Old?

Twenty-five years ago, when the twin daughters of a childhood friend were 7 and I was 41, I told them that someday, when they were grown, I'd babysit for their children.

"When I'm old enough to have a baby, you'll be old as a bone," one of the girls said.

Ouch.

Now they're 32, and I'm 66. Neither woman has children, so I'm not babysitting, sad to say. Still, it never occurred to me then, or now, that 66 could be "old as a bone.''

I don't feel that way or look that way. (New Old Age commenters who may have seen my photo and disagree: I'm ready for you. Was it a mistake not to "fix'' my face while there was still time? Bring it on.)

So how to explain the deference of total strangers lately to what they apparently perceive to be my doddering old age?

In the space of a day, three people offered me their seats on buses. I remember doing that when I last lived here in New York, three decades ago. But when I gave my seat away back then, it was to old ladies, and the rare man who looked too frail to stand up holding onto a pole for 15 minutes. These days, I'm just fine without a seat on the bus. I thanked those who offered me theirs and stood.

The next day, three residents of my building raced past me to hold open the heavy front doors. "What is their problem?" I thought. I mean, I go in and out, without assistance, many times a day — with a gigantic dog, a bag of garbage or a shopping cart. Sometimes with all three.

Then, not two hours later, I went shopping at the grocery store, seven blocks from home. As I was leaving with three bags of groceries, the 20-something at the checkout counter asked if I wanted a cab. I huffed out and carried my bags home. My shoulders are just fine.

It's one thing to admire grace in others as age changes who they are. It's another thing to accept that you are that someone.

The other day, postponing jury duty by phone, which I assumed would require a long ordeal on hold, I was instead immediately connected to a person who was clearly not in a call center in Mumbai. He couldn't have been nicer. Things seemed settled when he jolted me back to reality with a kind question.

"I should have asked before we went through all this,'' he said. "But you don't have to serve at all if you're 75 years or older.''

"I want to serve,'' I told him, trying to sound self-righteous, not indignant. "It would be my civic honor.''