Don’t You Dare Tell Me I’m Too Old
Especially since I’m seventy-five
I went to Europe for the first time in October this year. My last overseas trip was in 1978 to China before normalization of political relations with the United States. It was an amazing experience for this history girl, as was Europe. Coming slowly out of the fog of my husband’s death after 45 years of marriage, I suddenly found myself wanting to DO STUFF. I know my mother’s first words to me would be (as they always had been), “You’re too old.” Ah, no. And bah humbug to those telling me that during this year when they heard my plans to travel and take on other long-term projects, like publishing a book and planning for a gallery show.
I will never be too old to follow dreams and ideas.
I investigated, and on October 6 I boarded the first of three flights to get to Porto, Portugal. I was overweight, using a hiking pole, taking advantage of airport assistance, and taking my time to absorb everything I could when not looking at the ground to ensure I wouldn’t trip on something. So I am “old” in a bunch of respects: actual age, heart meds every day, basic daily walking for exercise, forgetting why I am in a particular room, searching for the “right” word, and other idiosyncrasies that are my life now.
