BY CATHY FIORELLO
It is fashionable these days to take the onus off aging with these falsehoods: “60 is the new 70,” “70 is the new 80.” But I am living (just) proof that 90 is 90 and always will be. It doesn’t matter if you are 91 or 95, and don’t even think of declaring yourself in the “early” 90s. Everything about 90 is late. The universal perception about being 90 is there is not much to look forward to except the dubious possibility of reaching 91.
On the other hand, 90 is not the same for everyone. A lot depends on one’s mindset. Those with a positive mindset tend to focus on the bright side and approach challenges with a positive outlook. My mother did not have a positive outlook. When she reached 70, her life became defined by what she could no longer do. She took off her apron and passed her kitchen and household duties on to her daughters. Though my right knee has been 90 for some time now, I refuse to let my knee determine the quality of my life.
My friend Carol is also 90. She is a poet, her head is in the clouds, not in the oven. She observes as I continue to preside over family dinners and holiday feasts as if she were watching a foreign film in a language she doesn’t understand. I read the poems that flow from her pen as something otherworldly. I am moved by the beauty in some and the despair in others, all a part of who she is. The challenge for both of us at this late age is that we do not forget who we are.
I admit there are daily reminders of my advanced age that I cannot deny. My memory is deserting me. It takes longer to do tasks I used to zip through, and more often of late, I find myself searching for a conversational word, sometimes never finding it.
On the plus side, I am amazed at how eager strangers, especially young people, are to help me. Without my asking, they rush to open a door, to stretch up to a high shelf at the supermarket to grab an item I can’t reach. Others refuse to believe I know where I am going and how to get there and offer help I don’t need, but graciously accept. Then there’s the time when exhausted from running errands, I stopped at Starbucks for coffee. When it was my turn to order, I said, “I’d like a medium decaf, please.” The young man behind me in line, speaking directly to the girl behind the counter said, “You better make that a regular. She looks like she could use some caffeine.”
There is an emotional downside to an unusually long life—my generation of family and friends is mostly gone. I began life as the youngest member of a large family. I am now the matriarch of a group of vibrant Millennials and Gen Z. I am learning more from them than they are from me. In fact, if someone were to ask me what the key to a meaningful late life is, I would answer—continued learning. I am at an age when I have earned the right to say “Enough! I’ll just coast the rest of the way,” but my mind won’t let me. Neither will it let me take afternoon naps. With so little of it left, I refuse to waste time.
Truth is, being 90 is not for the fainthearted, though I did experience a tangible advantage to being a venerable woman recently. My last Visa statement showed a charge for an expenditure I didn’t recognize—it was a series of letters and numbers that spelled nothing. I called Visa Customer Service and asked if they knew what I was being charged for. The service rep put me on hold while he searched for the identity of the charge. When he returned, he told me I was paying for a subscription to a dating service.
“I’m 90 years old,” I said. “Do you think I’m looking for a date?”
The charge was rescinded immediately.
Cathy Fiorello is a freelance writer based in San Francisco. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, Still Point Arts Quarterly, and Scholastic magazine. She is the author of the recently published Paris, Sharing the Magic, a memoir of her experiences in the city she has loved and visited for many years.