Silver linings, budding seniority, dyeing choices

I must admit that part of my week’s obsession with ageing problems and support is that in the month of December I was called a senior citizen twice. I am a number of years short of that landmark, and the comment made me bristle, not just because it bumped up my age (something which even an elder-respecting society does not consider a compliment) but also because of the attitude with which those words were said…sort of, all is over for you, Ma’am, and so anything you do is unexpected and like a miracle. It was so dismissive and patronizing that it bugged me.

It made me wonder how I’d feel once I did cross the age of 60 and heard the word applied to me in that tone, knowing that the appellation was factually correct. Anyway, why should a particular age matter so much, and why should it be such a way of judging people? Are the Govt concessions connected with the age worth that aura?

I have, of course, only myself to blame for being taken as a senior citizen before I have reached that “silver” age threshold.

For one, I am not dead. If I had died when younger, I would have died wrinkle-free and black-haired, without having the word “senior” applied to me.

But, you know, I would rather be alive and senior, than dead and young.

Read the full post here