I’m starting to feel a bit insecure about my looks. As a woman in her 60s, I know I’m past the point of turning heads, but I didn’t think I looked like I was decades beyond my actual age.
Right around the time I turned 60, my husband and I started doing my parents’ yard work. They were still living in a residential home with a lawn and garden. But, as they were in their 80s, it was difficult for them to push the mower, bend down to pull weeds, and carry large bags of yard debris. So, hubby and I took over, which was fine by me. I love yard work and find it highly meditative.
What I didn’t love was that every time my parents’ neighbor was out walking his dog, he’d stop to chat, calling me by my mother’s name. “Hey, Sharon, how are you. How’s Larry.” The first few times this happened, I corrected him. “Oh, I’m Noma, Sharon’s daughter. Sharon’s in the house. Let me get her for you.” Mistaken identity corrected.
But then it happened a few weeks later (same neighbor, “Hey Sharon …”). And again. The fourth or fifth time the neighbor addressed me by my 80-year-old mother’s name, I just went with it. I gave up correcting him and chatted with him like I was my mother. My husband thought it was hilarious; Mom and Dad kindly swore that the neighbor must be sight-impaired or senile … or both.
When my parents sold their home two years later and moved an hour north, we joked that at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the neighbor constantly mistaking me for my mother anymore. Ha! Those were innocent times.
Shortly after the move, my parents gave up driving. My husband and I launched FTS (Family Taxi Service). FTS is a soup-to-nuts operation. In addition to driving Mom and Dad to doctor appointments, I also escort them into the building, help fill out medical forms, answer questions, and sit in on appointments to take notes, if needed. So, it wasn’t unusual for me to be with my mother when she checked in with a new doctor last month.
“Oh my gosh,” the receptionist gushed when we arrived. “You two look so much alike. You must be sisters.”
I laughed at the “joke” and then realized the receptionist was dead serious. I explained our relationship (in a defeated voice), and the flustered receptionist mumbled something about my mom looking so young. Defeat turned to complete deflation when the nurse ambled into the exam room and asked “Sharon?” as her eyes swiveled between the two of us. Seriously? You’re holding the chart of an 83-year-old patient and you have to ask who’s who?
A few weeks later, I took Mom to a new ophthalmologist. I assumed this guy must have excellent vision and would be able to discern our age difference. He is an ophthalmologist after all. When he came into the exam room, however, he decided he’d charm Mom with a little white lie. He swore that he couldn’t believe my mom was my mom. “You must be sisters!” he exclaimed. Mom giggled with delight while I smiled the strained smile I’m starting to perfect. Thanks for stroking my mom’s ego, fella, while crushing mine. Isn’t the first rule of medicine “do no harm”?
Whatever. I concede defeat. I capitulate. When my 6-year-old great-nephew asked me recently how old I was, I answered 116. |
